


Grow Brighter

by KipRussel



Series: Grow Brighter continuity [1]
Category: Control (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Endgame spoilers and AWE spoilers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Post-Game, and that ache that comes with healing, and the joy that comes out of it, but who am I kidding in my heart it always was, dylan's increasing use of weird jokes (?) as a form of rebellion, excessive use of em dashes, i beat control last night and im going absolutely ape about it, i will allude to both dlcs, it starts at chapter 13!, lets work through TRAUMA, maybe foundation spoilers?, my speciality aka found family and family, playing fast and loose with Hiss lore, rated mature for some more sensitive but game related topics, see chapters for any specific warnings, somebody hug dylan challenge, there is angst but it has payoff the comfort half of hurt is coming, there's more explanation there, this didn’t start as a dylan centric fic in my head, tread carefully if ur avoiding spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 53,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26556418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KipRussel/pseuds/KipRussel
Summary: One day, Dylan wakes up.Dylan’s room feels very big and very small. Unseen, confidential, but extremely exposed. Jesse tries not to wonder how they kept Dylan contained. She really tries not to wonder what the Hiss did to break him out. Nobody has come to clean this room. The House hasn’t shifted it. Her name is still scrawled on the table and glass. "You must see the truth for yourself, Jesse, Sister. The horrible truth about the Bureau." Dylan’s words-- maybe Dylan’s words, maybe the Hiss’s words, she isn’t sure-- play over in her head. She thumbs through a file on the desk she’s memorized by now. Observations on her brother, every hour, everything he does, locked up. "I’m P6. Trench and Darling made sure of that."Jesse is Director now. She has to make sure that never happens again. Do whatever she can.
Relationships: Dylan Faden & Emily Pope, Dylan Faden & Jesse Faden, Jesse Faden & Emily Pope, Jesse Faden & Simon Arish, Simon Arish & Dylan Faden
Series: Grow Brighter continuity [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2033119
Comments: 92
Kudos: 78





	1. Aftermath and Consequences

One day, Dylan wakes up.

Jesse is standing in the middle of Dylan’s room when it happens. Not the room where he’s lying comatose, but his room, his… cell, in the Panopticon. She finds herself there, some days, though visiting so often or at all could probably be argued as… ill-advised. As Langston would probably say, if she talked to him about it. He probably knew she was in there _—_ maybe _—_ if there were camera feeds or notifications, but the whole program was so classified, he might not even know she’s there. Or maybe he just doesn’t say anything. Jesse turns the intercom off anyway. The place is probably a faraday cage, or something like it. Maybe the whole of the Oldest House is, she muses. 

Dylan’s room feels very big and very small. Unseen, confidential, but extremely exposed. 

She tries not to wonder how they kept Dylan contained. She really tries not to wonder what the Hiss did to break him out.

Nobody has come to clean this room. The House hasn’t shifted it. Her name is still scrawled on the table and glass.

_You must see the truth for yourself, Jesse, Sister. The horrible truth about the Bureau._

Dylan’s words _—_ maybe Dylan’s words, maybe the Hiss’s words, she isn’t sure _—_ play over in her head. She thumbs through a file on the desk she’s memorized by now. Observations on her brother, every hour, everything he does, locked up.

_I’m P6. Trench and Darling made sure of that._

Jesse is Director now. She has to make sure that never happens again. Do whatever she can. 

_P7. Jesse Faden._

Dylan’s room suddenly feels very, very small. Jesse realizes she isn’t sure how long she’s been there. She leaves quickly without a second look.

* * *

Jesse can hear the shouting echo up the Panopticon and holds the Service Weapon loose in her hand. Whatever’s coming, she can handle, especially after all she’s been through. After all _everyone’s_ been through. Maybe she can get her mind off things. She floats at first, but then falls all the way to the first floor walkway, catching herself at the last second. Her eyebrows knit together, realizing that she just hears _one_ voice shouting. It sounds like they’re shouting _Director._ It sounds like _—_

“Arish!” Jesse shouts as she rounds the corner, seeing him run at full speed. He barely stops himself, still leaning forward with the momentum, still babbling too fast for her to register as she reaches out to try and steady him. 

“I’ve been looking _everywhere_ for you ma’am, Pope tried to reach you and Underhill and Langston said _—_ ”

“What? Slow down, okay?” She says, trying to keep her voice calm. 

“Dylan’s awake,” he finally spits, and every inch of Jesse’s body feels frozen.

“What?” she repeats.

“Not _awake._ Sorry. I forget what word they _—_ the doctor’s used,” Arish says, wincing at the _instant_ brightness in Jesse’s steeled eyes. He’d practically ran all the way from the Central Executive to the Panopticon. He could barely breathe, let alone think straight. Arish rushes to fix his fumble when Jesse’s face twists in confusion. 

“But he’s responsive! Like, he’s moving his fingers or something. His eyes aren’t open but he’s responsive. You should go see him, ma’am.” 

He hasn’t even finished his sentence before the Director is a blur floating down the hall, landing on the nearest control point and vanishing with a hazy _blip_ . Arish stands there, trying to catch his breath, still not used to the paranatural powers Jesse wields with such ease. Arish swears suddenly, smacking his forehead. “ _Jesse!_ Not ma’am _—_ Director _—_ I _—_ ,” and he laughs, realizing he’s talking to no one, and sits down in the empty hallway.

* * *

Jesse’s speedy arrival to Central Executive is expected, but the force is not. A few researchers press themselves against the wall to avoid their new Director’s sprint up the stairs, stopping for no one. Even a ranger flinches, and Jesse catches herself and tries to at least slightly walk, eyes locked on the door to his room, heart hammering in her chest. She freezes when her hand finally wraps around the handle. 

_Dylan_.

Her brain was too full of possibilities to pick one. What if the Hiss still had him? What if he didn’t remember her? What if he was still hurt, or he didn’t wake up at all? Had his mind survived it all? 

Through the window in the door, she can see the glass box looming.

“Jesse?”

Jesse’s eyes flick over to Emily Pope, standing next to her with the faintest of smiles on her face. Jesse gives her a half nod as a hello. Emily hesitates, assessing the situation like she always does, trying to pick the right words before she can’t stop talking. 

“Dylan isn’t awake yet, but they want you to come in and see him in case he does wake up.” Emily breathes in, but holds it _—_ realizing everything she wants to say she should probably just hold on to for now. Jesse feels like everyone is holding their breath. Like everyone is waiting for… something.

She just wants her brother back.

Jesse pulls up a folding chair, scooting closer to Dylan’s bedside. The usual monitors beep and hum as a few doctors work methodically at whatever it is they do. Emily waits at the door’s threshold, not wanting to intrude.

“We recorded him moving his fingers half an hour ago,” one of the doctor’s tells her. Jesse’s a touch impressed with her bedside manner, her tone sounding sympathetic more than clinical. “We’ve been watching more closely since. He’s been twitching his fingers and toes, which we’ve not seen him do since he first fell into the coma. He's started to move his lips as well, a lot like sleep-talking.” Jesse tries to quell the rising hope in her chest.

“It’s not the Hiss chant, is it?”

“We’re not sure. We’re hoping that maybe he could wake up soon. Talking to him could help _—_ holding his hand, having a one sided conversation with him. It could draw him out, so to speak.”

“From what we’ve seen,” Emily begins and suddenly feels all eyes suddenly on her. “If it were the Hiss, he _—_ the Hiss, I mean, would have been able to speak despite the coma. Theoretically.” Emily tries to give a reassuring smile to her, as if it might bolster her theory in Jesse’s eyes. She really is trying. Jesse appreciates it.

“Okay,” Jesse says under her breath, turning back to her brother. She takes him in for a moment _—_ gone all these years _—_ these 17 years, now finally in front of her, in a sleep she can’t wake him from.

Maybe. Maybe can’t wake him from. 

Tentatively, Jesse takes Dylan’s hand laying loose at his side. She pauses, waiting for any sign of response, but gets nothing. She suddenly finds herself _really_ wishing all the doctors weren’t here. She knows they’re needed, but she feels so exposed. Dylan feels exposed. And she knows, she _knows_ they just want to help, and that things are starting to change, slowly, with her as director, but after all Dylan had been through… 

“Dylan?” she starts softly, as if everyone else in the room was asleep too, and she only wanted to wake him. “Can you hear me?” The equipment beeps rhythmically along with the beat of his heart. Jesse swears she can hear Emily’s pencil scratching across her clipboard. What should she say next? What could she say next?

“You’ll never guess what tape the janitor gave me to listen to. Remember that band dad always listened to? ‘Old gods of Asgard’?” Jesse huffs out a breath in amusement. “I would say ‘what are the odds’ but. It’s the Oldest House. So…” Her eyes come to rest on the corner of Dylan’s sweater. P6. She thinks about the matching ‘P7’ sweater she found in the search he sent her on. 

Jesse’s head snaps to look at her hand, feeling a twitch of movement. The doctor that spoke to her notices, and leans over to watch.

“Dylan?” Jesse asks, excitement all too clear in her voice. His fingers curl slightly, encompassing hers. Then more deliberately, until they’re holding hands _—_ no longer Jesse just holding his own. Everyone holds their breath as the silence echoes up the vaulted ceilings. Emily stands on her toes to try and see from the door. The heart monitor beeps. 

Dylan’s eyes move under his lids. Jesse squeezes his hand in her’s. His eyes flutter open.

“ _Dylan,”_ she gasps, almost laughing, dangerously close to crying, but she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t finish her sentence, but everyone can feel the relief and the never ending questions that hang off it.

_You’re awake._


	2. Tightrope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you know your name?” the Doctor asks again.
> 
> Dylan’s eyes unfocus, and he wades through his murky thoughts. This feels important somehow. More important than normal.

Jesse sits in her chair outside the glass and waits through every agonizing second for an all clear. For a doctor to finally beckon her in to see her brother. They had all softly and respectfully shooed her out so they could have the whole of the small space to run vitals and check on Dylan before she got to really speak to him. Awake. She’s leaning forward, resting her arms on her knees, and just watching through the glass. Emily somehow convinced the guard duty to step out _—_ they’re probably just outside the door, but it's still some precious privacy. 

Dylan is awake. And he’s staying awake. Jesse hears one of the doctor’s say _disoriented,_ but who wouldn’t be after _—_ well, everything Dylan’s gone through. She watches his eyes slowly move across the room, taking things in. She can’t read the expression on his face _—_ confusion? Tiredness? Is the Hiss still there, taking in everything and making battle plans? His hair is starting to grow back _—_ a prickly beard, stubbled brown. It’s been so long since Ordinary. Jesse catches herself pressing her forehead against the glass and leans back.

Dylan’s head lulls to one side as he sifts through the murky, dream-like thoughts in his head. His mouth feels very dry, so he tries to swallow, but that hurts, so he stops and scans the room, trudging through what thoughts he can form to try and figure out where he is. 

His head feels empty, but like it’s thrumming with information. Things are missing from his head. Is that… good? He remembers Ordinary. And labs. And dreaming. He’s been dreaming a lot. Were the dreams real? Which were dreams? What happened last time he was awake?

“Do you know your name?” someone asks him. His eyes feel like they’re working on delay, taking an extra second or two to do what he wants. A doctor is standing over him. Doctors are always standing over him.

“I _—_ ” Dylan tests his voice, and Jesse feels everyone’s relief, including her own, when they hear _only_ his voice. “I need water.” His voice warbles, filled with exhaustion, not totally lucid. His eyes unfocus, staring past the doctor, who’s trying to assure him it's coming and ask his name again. 

Dylan’s eyes roam slowly, glancing past equipment, carpet, doors, lights, until he lands on Jesse. Jesse doesn’t breathe. Dylan’s eyebrows knit together. Jesse is here. But the doctors are here. Asking him questions. Jesse… is supposed to be here, he finally decides. Why is she supposed to be here? Here is… where?

His attention lags back to the doctor, who presses a plastic cup with a straw into his hand.

“Can you hold it?” More questions. He holds the cup, and the doctor smiles slightly and nods to another, who writes something down. Dylan makes no move to actually drink from it. “Do you know your name?” the Doctor asks again.

Dylan’s eyes unfocus, and he wades through his murky thoughts. This feels important somehow. More important than normal.

“Dylan,” he says, slowly, carefully, like he’s testing it, like it’s precious. He looks at the doctor’s face, sure of himself. “Dylan Faden.”

* * *

They still make Jesse wait, which is _torture,_ even though she knows they still have to make sure he’s awake enough, ready for visitors, but Jesse has been waiting for _seventeen years_ to see him again. Even family, and even when that family is Director, have to wait on Doctor’s orders sometimes. She moves out into the halls, because a watched pot never boils, right?

Emily watches her pace a few new patterns into the carpet around Central Executive. For once, she finds herself at a total loss when it comes to what she could say. “Hang in there” feels hollow, “they’ll be done soon” feels obvious. Instead, Emily turns back to her reports and data _—_ what she knows and doesn’t know. There’s something in here that can help the doctors, she’s sure of it _—_ help Jesse, help Dylan. So she pours herself into that, because she wants to help-- _needs_ to help, somehow. Sorting through Darling’s paper trails is confusing as ever, but she has to make right what she can. 

She watches Jesse pass her door, walking her path in the opposite direction now. A door clicks open somewhere in the hall, and someone says “Director?”, and Jesse speeds past Emily’s door again, and it makes Emily smile. She realizes more than ever that things are changing in the Bureau, as she turns back to her whiteboards and banker boxes of files and papers and tapes and videos. And she has her work cut out for her.

They all do.

* * *

The last doctor holds the door to Dylan’s room open for her. He says something, like “we’ll be nearby”, or “take whatever time you need”, or “we’re here for you”, but Jesse doesn’t hear it and just nods as she steps in. The door to the glass box clicks shut behind her. Dylan’s eyes flick up and refocus at the sound, landing on her. Jesse steps forward to the edge of his bed, hands stopping just short of his own. _Let’s try this again_ , she thinks.

“Do you know who I am?”

His foggy eyes search her face, his expression blank.

“My sister,” he replies, voice gravelly.

Jesse feels like her heart could burst right there when she hears that. Instead she says, 

“You look old.”

Dylan’s lips twitch upward. “Old?” His voice still cracks with sleep and lack of use. Or maybe overuse.

“You’ve got a beard growing.” Jesse debates mentioning how he couldn’t do that when she saw him last, but it doesn’t feel funny, only painful, so she leaves it off.

“Huh.”

They both remain silent, together. Because that’s the important part. Dylan’s mind tells him all is right, and he believes it. Jesse is here. She checks to make sure there’s room, then sits carefully on the edge of his bed.

“I’m sure you’re tired of people asking how you feel, but…” Jesse trails.

“I’m tired. Really tired.”

“Yeah,” Jesse half laughs, because it seems to be the common mood among everyone at the Oldest House. “I’m _—_ ” she starts, but stops with the words still in her mouth, because no words feel like they could communicate what she feels. Maybe she’ll take a page out of the Board’s book. I’m relieved/elated/exhausted/happy.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she says finally. Dylan smiles softly, and Jesse smiles back, because it’s her brother’s smile, and she knows it. “Do you need anything? A blanket? Or. Anything, really.”

Dylan then asks the question of the hour: “What happens next?”

What happens next?

What a hard question to answer in the Oldest House.

“I don’t know,” Jesse answers truthfully, laying her hands clasped in her lap. “There’s still a lot to be done. The Bureau is still in lockdown, but we’re getting closer.” Jesse realizes she isn’t sure how much of the Hiss invasion Dylan remembers, so she skips over a lot of those details. She tells him the truth, but she doesn’t want to overload him.

Dylan hesitates to ask, but Jesse knows what he wants to say. _What about me? What about us?_

“A lot is going to change around here. Rules, regulations. I promise. Since I’m director _—_ ” Jesse catches the shifting expression on Dylan’s face. Confusion? Hurt? 

“Director?” he asks slowly, softly, annunciating each sound. “Did _—_ are they making you be director?” His tired voice makes him sound wounded. Raw. Jesse hesitates, trying to reassure him.

“Well _—_ they’re not making me. I _—_ I guess I took the job, but I want to be Director. Especially now that I understand more about the Bureau, and Ordinary, and _—_ ” Jesse wants to say _what they did to you_ , but Dylan looks away from her, and something bitter and intense fills his face, so she stops. She realizes she’s standing on eggshells in this conversation. No matter what she could say next, it feels wrong. The egg cracks.

“Dylan _—_ ”

“Get out,” he says. A statement, quiet, but strong, and bitter. Jesse can see the tears in his eyes, and her whole chest aches.

“I _—_ ”

“No. _Get out,_ ” he repeats, and he won’t even look at her.

Jesse gets up, and walks out the door to Central Executive, past the doctors, the rangers, past Emily, all the way to the Director’s office, and shuts the door behind her.

She sits on the couch, because she can’t sit behind the desk. She holds her head in her hands, trying to think, trying to do anything at all. Dylan won’t even look at her. In one fell swoop she rips the triangle hair pin from her head and throws it across the room. It clatters against the walls and tile in an unsatisfactory _plunk_. Jesse groans and stretches out on the couch, covering her face with her hands.

They need to talk.

Everyone needs to talk.

* * *

It’s a meeting none of them want to have but all know they need. _What happens next?_ They’re all there _—_ all of Jesse’s “higher ups”, which still feels weird for her to say. Probably just as weird for the others who’re still training themselves to call her Jesse instead of Director. But that’s what they meet for. To figure things out. 

And it was time to talk about what to do for Dylan.

Emily was the first to speak up, because she wanted to set the precedent for the kind of language they would use. The Bureau had regulations, and terminology _—_ buzzwords, even, but now that they all knew about Dylan, and were slowly combing through what classified files they could, Emily stressed that the language had to change. Dylan was Dylan. Faden was also acceptable to use. P6 could be used to talk about the program, or along with Dylan’s name, but nobody was supposed to refer to Dylan solely as P6, and especially not as an object. Langston liked this, of course, and pointed out he’s been suggesting this for all sorts of things for a long time. A small debate arises _—_ not unfriendly, but still tense, about staying on topic, about Dylan being human, not an object, then a great deal of interesting debate about sentience, protocol, ease of reference, old Bureau cases, something about a tractor (which Arish gets hung up on asking questions), and talk of traditions, and it all makes Jesse’s head spin. 

They finally get to their main topic: a treatment plan. Including where Dylan should be moved, and if he needs to be guarded. If he needs to be restrained. Jesse bucks against this initially, and nobody else wants it to be this way, either, but if there _is_ still Hiss in him, _what if?_ Jesse points out they can’t operate on what ifs, but the point stands that if Dylan got out and chose not to stay contained, they could be right back at square one. It’s not a forever situation, just something to set up while they can verify that her brother is okay. None of them like it. Jesse knows not everyone here even trusts Dylan, but none of them want to hurt him. Or hurt Jesse. 

There’s talk of how they walk a line at the Bureau. A very delicate one. Jesse feels more like she’s walking a tightrope, and there’s no safety net.

_It’s a good thing I can levitate._

“Can I say something?” Arish asks, and Jesse bites back the friendly, snarky reply of ‘ _you just did’,_ and instead gives him the nod to go ahead. “We’ve got to hold each other accountable. All of us. We’ve got to check in and question what we’re doing and why we’re doing it, especially when it affects multiple branches. I know this whole Bureau is a place of secrets, I get that 100%, but if we’re going to take healthy steps forward, we’ve got to be open at least somewhat. I’m just saying.” He holds his hands up, palm open, like he’s said something he worries will get flak. 

“You make it sound like a relationship,” Langston quips.

“I mean, it _is_ one, it’s just not romantic, like you’re implying. Really, Langston, you should know, you’ve talked about the relationship with altered items. Instead of romance it’s a bunch of government employees, some extremely powerful artifacts and a building with a mind of its own.” Arish sits back in his seat. “Which. I feel like I’ve lost my metaphor. But you get what I mean. I hope.”

Everyone nods in agreement, murmuring a few responses. Then they all turn to Jesse, who nods as well. She reads the paper in front of her, detailing where they plan to move Dylan, and all the rules in place they’ve all worked together to make sure he’s treated right.

“This sucks,” Jesse says suddenly, about everything.

“Yeah,” comes the chorus of replies.

Things are changing in the Bureau, and she has her work cut out for her.

They all do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the chapter count to ?, because I realized I'm just gonna keep writing this, because I have a LOT of ideas, and I know where I want to end it, so we'll see how many chapters I fill to get there.
> 
> Thank you so much everyone for your kind words, it means a lot to me! These characters mean a lot to me too, so I'm glad its hitting people the way it does me ;u;


	3. Cacophony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bitter voice in the back of Dylan's thoughts answers back. "Lies. Garbage. Bureau lies." It makes his head hurt. Or maybe his lack of sleep makes his head hurt.
> 
> Maybe it's the ugly carpet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter is sad, I apologize, but I promise the payoff is coming. I bumped the fic rating up to T because it's gonna start hitting heavier (but canon-typical) topics)

The only thing punctuating the silence between Jesse and Dylan is the hum of medical equipment and fluorescent lights. He pointedly refuses to look at her, staring instead out the glass wall to his right from his bed. 28. 28 ceiling tiles in the hallway before the door. He counted last night, when he couldn’t sleep and grew bored. He had a similar count for things in his old cell. 

Jesse is waiting for him to answer her question, holding a paper extended, bureau seal still freshly printed at the top. _Please, Dylan_.

“I want you to have a say in it all. But we have to do something sooner or later regardless,” Jesse says, her voice softer than she means it to be. How she wishes she could just wave her hand and snap her fingers and make everything better. But even now, she can’t shake the guilt-packed fear that to Dylan, this still seems like a prison. 

Jesse thinks back to the mental hospital. How her own experiences felt. How the tapes of Dylan’s evaluations reminded her of then. She wants to tell him she can relate, even if it's only an inkling of understanding, because she doesn’t know how to make it so clear that she loves him, so much, and she’s here now.

Dylan blinks, silently counting the number of lights he can see in the room. Jesse stifles a sigh, setting the paper down on his chest.

“I’ll leave it here for you, when you’re ready.”

“No,” he says suddenly, stopping her in her tracks. He turns and looks at her now, but under his gaze, it's almost worse than when he refused to. “Hold it up for me. I’ll read it.”

Jesse knows full well Dylan could do that himself, but she does it for him anyway, because she wants to be with him, and maybe he’s tired. Maybe he’s looking for an excuse to be with her, too. 

Maybe it’s some game of spite, making her do it for him.

But it's progress, whatever it is.

Dylan reads the title of the paper, expecting to see “ _containment procedure_ ” or “ _parautility_ ” or some other word that strips away his personhood.

Instead, he reads a bolded title with his name in it.

DYLAN FADEN TREATMENT PLAN: 

His fingers twitch at his side, fiddling with his sweater as he reads. There’s a short biography, about who he is. A lot of it is redacted. Important things, like Ordinary. The Prime Candidate Program. But not important specifically to his healing, apparently. But it details things that should not be done. That should be done. Some of them have big [AWAITING APPROVAL] boxes next to them, apparently meant for him to weigh in on. How foreign. How _late_. 

The rest of the document is about the Hiss. About what they can account for, what they know happened, what they don’t. Some of that is redacted, too.

“If you need help filling in some memories,” Jesse says, like she knows where he is in the document. “just ask. I figure it might be kind of hard to sort through it all. Or if you have any questions, at all. Just ask. If we need to change something in there, assuming we _can_ change it, we will.”

Dylan’s eyes flit to her, then back to the list of regulations and dos and don'ts.

_You gave us the permission in your regulations._

* * *

Dylan gets a room _—_ a _real_ room, albeit it’s just an office turned into a makeshift hospital for one, but it isn’t a glass box with the bare minimum furniture and cameras watching his every move. He doesn’t like the carpet, but it's carpet, and not cold, clinical, white flooring. There’s paintings dotting the walls in some places. The one across from his bed has two men on horses at a river. It's very green. He likes it. It makes him think of the trees he saw when they wheeled his bed down the halls. Those trees stretched forever and ever, and he made a mental note to go see them when he could. Because Jesse promised he would be able to. That this was temporary, like the lockdown is temporary.

He pulls his hand up to rub his eyes, and warily looks at the metal restraints at the sides of his bed.

 _Just in case,_ Jesse said. _Not my idea,_ she had told him.

A bitter voice in the back of his thoughts answers back. _Lies. Garbage. Bureau lies._ It makes his head hurt. Or maybe his lack of sleep makes his head hurt.

Maybe it's the ugly carpet.

“How are you today?” A doctor asks, and Dylan snaps to look at them like he’s just been burned. The bitter voice in his head sits on the back of his tongue and wants to bark _guess how I feel_ , but he shrugs in response. 

“My head hurts.” _Obviously,_ he thinks to himself. The doctor nods, and pulls a pen out of his lab coat pocket, and writes something down. Dylan picks at the edge of his sleeve. Here come more questions. Dylan hates the questions.

Why does he hate the questions?

He’s always hated the questions.

But...

Dylan feels like he’s keeping a secret. He doesn’t know why. Or about what. He can’t find it or remember it or locate it. He just feels the urgency. The fear. It can’t be uncovered. He doesn’t know if keeping the secret is right or wrong, but he has to keep it a secret to stay safe. He thinks. It makes his head hurt. And he hates the questions. Is the doctor still asking questions? Did he answer any of them?

“Dylan? Is something wrong?” the doctor asks. Dylan snaps out of his thoughts, and realizes he’s holding his hand to his mouth, biting a knuckle. “You seem worried. Do you need something?” Dylan realizes this is his opportunity. His opportunity for... something.

Something important.

“I need to see Jesse,” he says, voice quivering. When did that happen? When did his throat feel so tight? He rubs his eyes again, tries to find a place to put his hands, but none of it is right.

“Okay,” the doctor nods, and it's the first time Dylan has ever heard a positive response to that question. “We’ll do some tests _—_ ”

“No!” Dylan shouts with such urgency he startles himself, and he shrinks back against his pillows when the doctor’s grip tightens around his clipboard. “No. I need to see Jesse. I need to see my sister. Now.” 

He doesn’t elaborate, because he can’t. He doesn’t know why, exactly. Not in a way he can tell. It's a secret. Jesse coming to see him will keep him safe, somehow. And it makes his head split and his stomach churn because this will keep him safe, but he’s _angry_ with Jesse, and doesn't want to see her, but has only wanted to see her all his life. He needs to **get** to Jesse, but that’s not safe for her, and he doesn’t know why, and it makes him anxious, and he just wants to see her and have all this be over with, but he can’t help but feel like something is wrong.

_You can almost hear our words but you forget._

A final clear thought finds its voice, soft and shaky and apologetic, as Dylan looks at the doctor.

“I think you should follow that emergency protocol now.”

Jesse gets the intercom call she never wanted to get.

Dylan is repeating the Hiss incantation.

She cuts off the speaker on the other end, jamming the talk button, telling them she’s on her way. A security officer and ranger meet her part way and fall into step behind her, filling her in. Dylan asked to be contained again. It's definitely Hiss.

And something is different this time.

“What? What _something?_ ” Jesse asks.

“That’s all the doctors said,” the ranger answers.

Jesse can hear her brother’s shouting before she even reaches his room.

“It hurts, I don’t want to say it but I _have_ to say it, it feels good to say it,” Dylan’s words are panicked and tight, to no one in particular and everyone in particular. Almost childlike, but incredibly clear and lucid. Jesse is there, and she’s talking like a Director should, asking questions, giving orders, standing by his bedside.

Dylan speaks louder so he can hear himself, so the others can hear, so they can understand him. Not what the Hiss is saying, but _him_. Or maybe all he wants to say is only what the Hiss left in him. He doesn’t know if he can tell.

That scares him.

“It's wrong— it’s right but it's wrong— I want— **_I want this to be true_**.” His back arches and he pulls against his restraints. His voice weaves in and out of the chorus; two conversations. He fights to get it back. To be heard. The hiss chant rushes to get out, tumbling out faster than any of them have ever heard. “ ** _We stand around while you dream. You—_ ** no!” he screams, and everyone in the room stops, watching him, horrified. “Get out of my head, it hurts— **_you want to smile. You want to hurt. You don’t want to be—_ **GET OUT!”

He can hear Jesse, talking like a sister should. She’s calling his name. He wants to yell at her to get out. To leave him alone. Because _—_ he doesn’t know why. But she needs to stay. Because _—_

“ ** _You came and we let you in through the hole in you. You have always been here, the only child. A copy of a copy of a copy._ ** ” The bitter voice in the back of his head hisses _this is what you want._

Dylan shouts loud enough to echo down the halls, to send agents running away and running toward to get to safety or to see what’s happening. Rangers tense, coiled, ready to spring. Jesse is there, next to him.

“I don’t know _WHAT_ I want,” he yells, voice raw and cracked. Suddenly he quiets, breath ragged, eyes wide and piercing through his sister. “Jesse, get them out. Help me. I’m scared, Jesse.”

The doctor’s are all talking over each other, all talking at Jesse. Jesse swallows hard and holds her hands out over her brother’s head. Dylan’s eyes are open, meeting hers, terrified. Jesse is terrified, too. _Help me, Jesse_.

She purges the Hiss from Dylan. He shuts his eyes tight, and then it's over, and Jesse is shaking, and the Oldest House is silent, and Dylan’s eyes don’t open.

But he’s breathing.

The medical equipment beeps dutifully along.

_We stand around while you dream._


	4. The After-Work Ritual / An Ear Worm is a Tune You Can’t Stop Humming in a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> baby, baby, baby, yeah.

The stars in the quarry seem to stretch on forever and ever. Bright, twinkling; the Oldest House’s grandest vaulted ceiling. Jesse always liked stars. The House gave her a chance to soak in the light of new ones, letting her eyes get lost in the swirling patterns and shapes and flickering dots way above her. She’s sprawled out on the top of a rock outcrop, where no one can reach her easily, and where she went in hopes that her thoughts would leave her alone. She stretches out her hand and shuts one eye, trapping stars between her thumb and outstretched index finger, like they used to do as kids.

Her thoughts remind her Dylan is asleep again.

The stars get blurry as she blinks a stray tear away.

Jesse sniffs, then hauls herself upward, shaking out her head and shoulders. How long has she even been up here, she wonders? There’s bound to be _someone_ looking for her. Especially after what happened.

“Ma’am? Er. Jesse? You out here somewhere?”

Ah, there it is.

“I’m up here, Arish,” she answers, jumping down from her perch to the rocky path below. Arish jogs up to meet her, and before Jesse can ask what he needs, she notices the bottles in his hand. He smiles, holding two beers aloft. _Where in the…?_

“I kinda had a feeling you’d be out here. I mean, I go here when I need something that isn’t cement and pipes and pneumatic tubes, so. I guessed, and ta-da.” He gestures at her triumphantly, then realizes he _is_ still talking to the director. “Not like I’m drinking on the job or anything. I _—_ ” but Jesse cuts him off with a smirk.

“Don’t worry, Arish. Where did you even get these?” She sits herself on the edge of the rock, feet dangling over the side. He sets the beers between them and situates himself on the ledge.

“When you’re working security you pick up a lot of people’s so-called secrets, like uhh… interoffice romance and drama, petty fights over projects, and _—_ ” he twists the cap off one of the beers. “When someone’s brought in some ‘contraband’ to celebrate birthdays. Figured you might want one, so I came to offer.” Jesse picks up the remaining beer and reads the label, twisting the cold bottle around in her hand.

“I really never drank much. I did like a good IPA now and then.” Arish’s face twists in (mostly) mock disgust and Jesse rolls her eyes. “Not an IPA guy?”

“God, no.”

Jesse twists her own open and tries it. It’s not half bad. She’ll take it, considering most of her snacks lately have been rations from shelters or extremely generically labeled vending machine food.

“I know you didn’t just come find me to share a beer,” Jesse says, returning back to her star watching. “What’s up, Arish?”

“You vanished and everyone worried,” he answers, rhythmically thunking the heels of his boots against the rock. “I figured I’d find you and find out what you were up to and what you need. Talk about it, not talk about it, talk about something else, just have me drop off a beer for you and get out of your way…”

Jesse nods slowly. _Thanks, Arish._

“What’s going on in the world of security?”

He hums, looking up and scanning the stars, like they’ll help him remember.

“Well, we’re in lockdown, obviously. The front sector of the House is still secure. There’s a bunch of boring and serious stuff you already know about, and then there’s the stupid office drama that’s still hanging on despite all the hiss hell stuff going on around us. Today I got 6 complaints that were 100% meant for HR.”

“Really?” Jesse asks, less as a question and more like she’s calling his bluff.

“Yeah, some idiot decided that since his coworker hadn’t turned up yet, he should open all his mail in case there was something important in there the team needed. Instead he finds some uh, rather steamy notes from another department. And then his coworker shows back up and finds all his mail already opened. His buddy catches a fist to the gut, and he comes to _us_ to complain about getting punched.”

Jesse laughs, shaking her head. “And you guys did what about it, exactly?”

Arish shrugs. “HR already got on my case about not telling people to ‘shut up and take it to HR’, so I just told them it wasn’t my department. Unless they start throwing fists on the regular. Then that’s an issue.”

“God,” Jesse starts, glancing down at the beer in her hand. “Why can’t all our executive meetings just be like this?” Arish tips his bottle toward her.

“I mean, you _are_ Director, ma’a _—_ _Jesse_ ,” and he points and grins, saying _look, I’m finally catching on._ “If you wanted to turn meetings into more of an after work at the bar thing, you could certainly try. Don’t think Marshall would be too keen on that one though.”

Jesse laughs again, and thinks _this is nice._ Having coworkers she can trust. Friends she can trust.

“Hey, weren’t you asking about Northmoor earlier?” she asks suddenly, squinting at Arish, trying to remember.

“Oh yeah. His papers have no date of death on ‘em. Thought it was kinda weird. Not like they're redacted or anything, they’re just not there. Why?”

Jesse smirks and considers it for a few seconds. “You have all the pieces of that puzzle. See if you can figure it out.”

Arish blinks, then grins. “A game? Really? Alright. Let me think…”

_For all the workplace drama, life threatening or petty, stressful or annoying…_

Jesse gazes up at the stars, listening to Arish puzzle through questions.

_...she wouldn’t trade it for any other job._

* * *

Dylan is sitting in the chair in Director’s office.

No, that’s not right.

Dylan is standing in a corner in the Director’s office, watching himself sit in the chair. It’s him, but it’s not. That feels kind of weird. Dylan thinks he’s supposed to also be with his body. But he’s not in it right now, and someone else is. Director Dylan and Not-Director Dylan. Director Dylan is sitting with his hands flat on the desk, staring out the double doors, watching for someone to come in, a knife-like grin on his face. Not-Director Dylan takes tentative steps forward to see what the Director is watching for. 

Jesse, dressed in black slacks and a white button up, walks into the office, and Dylan lights up. His sister is here. That feels right. He walks up to meet her, but she shoots him a sideways glare and catches his shoulder, shoving him away. 

“Stay out of my way, Dylan.”

Oh.

Right.

_Jesse doesn’t care._

Director Dylan laughs at that. Jesse laughs too.

His sister hates him. He hates her too, he remembers. Dylan glowers and skulks out the doors into the main hall. His own smirking portrait is on the wall across from him. _No, not me. Director Dylan. I’m P6._

There’s a janitor mopping up the floor nearby, humming a tune he thinks he recognizes. Dylan blinks heavily, rubbing his eyes as he walks. Something isn’t right. He’s forgetting something. The janitor is watching him. Dylan doesn’t like that. He walks further down the hall, out into the offices. There are rows and rows and rows of desks, with researchers and scientists and people in lab coats. Dylan remembers he’s only wearing a sweater and sweats, and feels out of place. Nobody acknowledges him. 

“Hello?” He’s too quiet to be heard over the sound of keyboards and pneumatics and office gossip. He tries padding up to one of the desks, but the worker doesn’t pause at all. “Hello? I _—_ ”

“Dylan!” calls a voice behind him, and his shoulders tense. “There you are!” He whips around to face the voice _—_ Casper Darling, standing at the end of a row of desks with his stupid grin and stupid bowtie and stupid knit sweater. “We’ve got a lot to do today, don’t you remember?” Dylan wants to hurl an insult, or a fist, or a computer at Darling’s head, but he can’t keep his eyes open. 

Director-Dylan is in his office and laughing. He has the Service Weapon, and Dylan does not. Director-Dylan is holding it to Jesse’s head. No _—_ no, Trench. The Director. Something like that. Is it pointed at him? Dylan finds himself looking down the barrel of the twitching gun. 

He’s standing in the middle of the director’s office.

Director-Dylan is sitting in his chair.

Jesse walks in the front doors with a mail tube in her hands.

_This is wrong. This is wrong, I’m forgetting something._

“Get out of her way, Dylan,” Director-Dylan sneers. Jesse doesn’t look at him or slow her pace, just clips him with her shoulder as she walks by.

_Jesse wouldn’t do this. Jesse wouldn’t ignore me._

“Jesse?” Dylan asks, and his voice sounds so much smaller than he thought it ever could. She doesn’t even flinch.

_Of course she ignores you. She’s ignored you for years. She doesn’t care— no, no, she does care. She does. Jesse cares._

Dylan watches her set the mail in Director-Dylan’s “ingoing” box, then take the outgoing mail.

_Jesse. Jesse should be director. No. No, no, Jesse hasn’t earned that. Dylan earned that. But he’s not Director either._

“This is wrong,” Dylan says. Director-Dylan is pointing the service weapon at him.

Dylan is standing in the center of the office. The mail is back. Jesse is gone.

This time, he walks out the doors as she comes in, and she does not stop or glance his way. The janitor is still watching him, still humming a tune. He walks past Director-Dylan’s portrait and out into the rows of desks, up to the first one. 

The worker is typing with a bag on their head. Dylan decides they aren’t the best to talk to, and starts for the next desk.

“Dylan, you can’t keep avoiding this,” Casper calls. Dylan’s fists clench at his sides.

He stands in the center of the Director’s office.

There're workers out in the hall, clutching their sides, fallen on their knees. The janitor stalwartly hums his tune, but looks up as Dylan passes. “He is right. You have many chickens to pluck.” Dylan doesn’t know what that means. He ignores the janitor, who goes back to humming. 

There are too many rangers in the office. All of them are watching Dylan. Casper Darling is standing at the end of the desk rows.

“You need to let go, Dylan,” he says. Dylan laughs humorlessly, lip twitching.

“No,” he replies instantly. _How dare you._ Darling shakes his head.

“You don’t _—_ ”

“No, _you don’t understand._ Don’t you dare tell me I don’t understand,” Dylan hisses, stalking forward. Darling doesn’t react. “I understand. I understand all the bureau does.” The lights around them flicker and dim. Everything seems a painful hue of red.

Darling pleads with him. “Let go, Dylan.”

Dylan rips a computer from a desk, levitating it, launching it across the room, right for Darling’s head. Somewhere, he hears Jesse scream.

Dylan’s eyes snap open to see the tiled ceiling.

He can hear the incessant beeping of the heart monitor. 

He’s in his own body.

His head hurts.

“I’m awake again,” he croaks.


	5. Medicinal Laughter

Jesse doesn’t ask Dylan how he feels, because she knows he’s done nothing but answer questions all day. Dylan enjoys the silence with her, because he’s tired of talking about how he’s been when all he’s done is lay in bed and sit through tests and be observed, like always. But his headache is gone, and he’s been eating solid foods and sitting up, and Arish lost several rounds of blackjack against him, so it’s not _entirely_ a boring day. He’s never had FBC employees interact with him like that.

Correction: he’s never had FBC employees interact with him like that _before_ the incident. Dylan did not expect it, and coming from security, expected it to be some kind of weird, failed, ploy to get near him. But… the company is nice. And Arish treats him like a human being. He sits there and waits for Dylan to stop when he shuts his eyes and repeats the Hiss speech instead of running off to tell some hot-headed ranger. He also leaves Dylan alone when he tells him to piss off. So Dylan lets him keep it up, for now. 

The Researcher _—_ Dylan digs around for her name in his thoughts, but can’t find it-- came in to see him today, and he expected more garbage like when he was more of a prisoner than he feels now, but instead she tells him him about the advancements they’ve been making with lifting the lockdown and understanding the Hiss. She talks so much _—_ _so much—_ and seems so genuinely invested in things Dylan is barely paying attention to. She says something about compulsions and the Hiss speech and it relieving his headaches, but he already _knew_ that, and he wasn’t about to tell her. And she smiles too much. He thinks she’s hoping he might give her more information on the Hiss. But to her credit, she doesn’t push him at all, and it is at least somewhat nice to have an FBC employee interact with him beyond sliding him food or sedating him or asking him psych evaluation questions.

Nobody threatens to sedate him. Nobody records his every waking moment.

Only _some_ of his moments. 

No Polaris in his head driving him up the wall.

It’s not great. But it’s better than it was.

Now, Jesse is in a chair, sighing occasionally, rooting through a manilla folder of paper. Dylan is half-watching the TV that’s been set up at the foot of his bed. The flighty guy from the Panopticon apparently had a small stash of VHS tapes in his office and brought them over, anxiously dumping them on the table with a nod before leaving quickly. The tapes are just Bureau related _—_ old out-dated training videos, or instructional bits, but they’re Darling free and better than nothing. And they're _not_ the Threshold Kids. Dylan never wants to see another Threshold Kids tape in his life. One of the employee tapes is playing now, showing instructions on the dos and don'ts when it comes to handling House shifts. Dylan has the boring narration memorized. 

“Security said you were locked up too.” Dylan breaks the silence, startling Jesse out of the paper she’s reading. He still talks like he did under complete Hiss corruption _—_ savoring words and sounds occasionally.

“Security? Arish?”

“He calls you Director. I call him Security,” Dylan answers. Jesse can’t decide if that’s Dylan’s attempt at a joke, an attempt at a power play, or both. “He told me you broke out to get here.”

Jesse straightens up, slowly closing the folder. This wasn’t really a conversation she expected to have today. Nor is it something she really wants to remember. But Dylan asked. Maybe they can reconnect over this.

“Yeah. Uh… I was in a mental hospital. I was told I couldn’t leave until they cleared me for ‘experiencing reality’ or something like that. I told them what really happened in Ordinary, they insisted it was some stupid industrial accident, and kept me there.”

“Sounds terrible, being locked up,” Dylan deadpans. Jesse shoots him a look that’s somewhere between amused and exasperated.

“Dylan.”

A hint of a smile tugs at the edge of his mouth.

“No, really. Your story _resonates_ with me.”

 _He did not,_ Jesse thinks. Did Dylan make a _pun?_ A joke not at anyone else’s immediate expense? And a stupid one at that. There’s a flicker of mischief in Dylan’s usually glassy expression. He’s waiting for her to call him out.

“Was that a resonance joke? Really.” 

Dylan laughs _—_ an actual genuine laugh _—_ a croaky one, like he’s out of practice, and maybe it’s laced with bitter snark, but Dylan laughs. It makes Jesse laugh with him. It makes her hopeful. Even if her brother is being an obnoxious twit, to use too kind a term for his… usual disposition. This is… improvement. Healing. 

She hopes, at least.

“You’re certainly feeling better today,” she chuckles. 

Dylan shrugs. The smile slides off his face as he stares past the TV. The VHS tape has stopped and spat itself back out. 

“Wake me when I can leave,” he says, and rolls over so his back is to her.

Jesse watches him for a moment before turning back to her paperwork.

 _I wanna get to that part as much as you do,_ she thinks, and flips the folder back open, returning back to the pages of bureau jargon and regulations. _We’re working on it._ _It’s not easy for any of us._

* * *

Darling did not make Emily’s job easy for her.

That’s fine, as far as Emily’s concerned. Part of the joy of her job is the challenge, the excitement of figuring the puzzle out, the _aha_ moment. But Darling has left her banker boxes and drawers full of scattered, wild ideas about Hedron and Hiss and the slide projector. She’s been combing through this particular office for a week, at _least_ , and she still hasn’t found everything Darling left behind. Alone in the office, she rolls up her sleeves and hauls a paper-stuffed box onto the table.

It’s hard not to be bitter that he kept her out of the loop. It’s hard not to grimace at the idea that he had been hiding Dylan along with Trench all these years. 

It’s hard not to feel the deep, empty ache of him being _gone_.

She both wants to never think about the video Jesse showed her of Darling’s goodbye, and feels the morbid curiosity to only think about it, to find out what he meant that he’d be gone. Not dead, gone. 

But she has her other work to pour into. Jesse’s counting on her. The Bureau is counting on her. So pour herself into it she does.

Somehow, Darling had known the Hiss was coming and started preparing for it. Emily is hoping that some of his notes will shine a light on how the Hiss behaves, or even eliminate hypotheses she’s been tossing around in her head. Anything to bring the Bureau closer to understanding the catastrophe. Anything that helps them understand what’s affecting their coworkers, floating up toward the ceilings, continuing their chant day by day.

Something to help Jesse’s brother.

Emily still isn’t sure why Dylan wasn’t completely overtaken by the Hiss. She has a few running theories, but has restrained herself from asking him _too_ many questions. He isn’t the most colorful conversationalist. 

Well, he is colorful. His vocabulary is dotted with insults and swears that he wields with spiteful precision. But most of her data around Dylan she’s gotten from the doctors or Jesse. Arish has told her about his Hiss speech “episodes” _—_ how he lapses into them, not unlike a tic. What makes him different? Why the coma? How come Jesse couldn’t purge it from him entirely? Is it totally gone, and simply left some kind of imprint on him, some lasting behavior? Is it like Trench? Hibernating in him until the right moment, influencing him? 

She shoves another box full of notes across the floor with her foot, and they slide up against the desk she’s already emptied. She moves to Darling’s scattered whiteboard, covered in chicken-scratch theories and notes to himself and papers haphazardly slapped up with a magnet. 

It’s hard not to think about Dylan and Darling.

It’s hard to find the balance between scientific interest and morality. To walk that line.

She feels like it should be cut and dry, but the whole situation is a minefield. She’s found the odd classified file on Dylan. Found the observation notes on his daily activities in his cell. Sometimes it feels too close to home _—_ too close to her own notes and observations. Where does she draw the line? How can she help Dylan? She wants to observe him and ask him her ever-growing list of questions, but Dylan wants to be left alone. She doesn’t blame him. But she can’t make up for the years Darling and Trench took. She lands on the question she finds herself asking every day: _Why?_

Another puzzle to solve. A big one.

Emily sighs and crosses her arms, scanning the whiteboard again.

She’ll take it one step at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not gonna lie, I was real excited to make that resonance pun ksjdhfkjsdhf


	6. FBC Research and Records: Dylan Faden Hiss Infection

**DYLAN FADEN MEDICAL RELEASE: HISS INFECTION**

**\--CONFIDENTIAL--**

**COMPILED BY: EMILY POPE, HEAD OF RESEARCH** **  
****BY ORDER OF: DIRECTOR JESSE FADEN**

SUMMARY: 

Our understanding of the Hiss resonance is still incomplete. Dylan Faden is a unique case. Despite showing continued signs of a Hiss ‘infection’ (this term has been agreed upon between Research and Medical), Dylan has been cleared by the FBC as partially recovered. Dylan is not considered ‘infectious’. Currently, the decision has been made to allow Dylan clearance to navigate the house within certain parameters, as well as following the usual base employee rules. Dylan is not to be considered an employee, guest, altered being, or prisoner. Any questions regarding Dylan’s parameters are to be brought to Director Faden. 

Dylan has been cleared from his probationary period following an outburst that resulted in the destruction of several ███████████████ and the injury of ██████. Reports point to the provoking actions of ███████. No casualties were reported. After several meetings among executive staff and discussions with Dylan, he has again been cleared to leave his room, and seems willing to continue with good behavior. Dylan initially turned down the offer, but took it the following morning. A specific team of Rangers has been formed in case of emergencies. 

It is unknown if Dylan’s aggression is due to trauma (refer to file ████), if it is an effect of the Hiss, or if it is a combination of the two. Dylan’s behavior is paradoxically predictable and unpredictable. The addition of the many unknowns surrounding the Hiss make hypotheses difficult. An FBC psychologist may want to work in tandem with Research on this, but it will be a delicate process. In the meantime, it is recommended that when possible staff avoid discussing ██████, Director Trench, or the late Casper Darling around Dylan. Any complaints made to HR about Dylan are to be brought to Director Faden's executive team.

Is Dylan sharing his body or his being with the Hiss? Is this symbiotic, parasitic? Is Dylan a willing host? Further conversations with Dylan, as well as Director Faden’s previous discussions (refer to file ███) may help to shed some light on this subject.

Concerns were raised about Dylan acting as a Hiss “spy”. This was determined to be unfounded, as the Oldest House is still occupied by many Hiss possessed beings. If the Hiss is watching us, Dylan is not a detriment. It is my belief that treatment of Dylan as a hostile entity could result in negative outcomes for the lockdown, the FBC, and Dylan himself. The fact that Dylan appears to have retained autonomy and lucidity raises more questions than answers, but in my eyes, could be the key to us finally understanding how the Hiss operates. Regardless, Dylan is being observed, and giving reports on how he perceives his current condition. This has proven to be difficult, as Dylan occasionally refuses. Further discussions are being made regarding these actions (refer to multimedia ████████).

Dylan has been observed lapsing into the Hiss incantation. Medical reports (see files ████████) describe these episodes as ranging from simple muttering to ‘absences’, akin to Dylan’s behavior while housed in the Executive Sector. Dylan reports these moments as providing relief from his now chronic migraines and headaches. 

It is currently unknown why this behavior produces physical relief. Is it akin to a tic, that gets worse when repressed? Or a compulsion? Perhaps something Dylan performs inherently and cannot control without added focus, like blinking or breathing. Or is the incantation ultimately harmful _—_ providing temporary and immediate relief, but only inflaming the infection? The Hiss plan and goal regarding remaining in Dylan, if it indeed remains in Dylan, is unclear.

Dylan’s voice, compared to previous recordings in the FBC (refer to multimedia ████████) has undergone significant changes. His manner of speaking (not the “chorus” voice, which is only seen during the reciting of the Hiss incantation) appears to have changed when he was infected by the Hiss and has yet to revert back. It’s unknown if this is due to the Hiss’s continued presence in Dylan or if it is a lasting effect of the Hiss’s hold on him. It is difficult to compare his current manner of speaking to his previous, as most of the staff who had interacted with Dylan are missing, corrupted, or ██████. Further research into old FBC files is being conducted.

Dylan is required to wear an HRA at all times unless otherwise cleared by staff. It has not been observed to significantly aid or effect the Hiss infection, but is being used as a precaution _._ Dylan has shown some resistance to wearing an HRA, but has said it does not cause him any discomfort. It is assumed that this is simply an act of defiance. 

Dylan is required to stay away from sectors overrun by Hiss, as there are still many unknowns regarding the Hiss and the way the resonance moves. There is a working hypothesis that proximity to other Hiss corrupted individuals could worsen Dylan’s state. Until proven otherwise, he may not enter predominantly Hiss areas of the House. (This is not in the case of Hiss Agents, as they appear to not affect him. Regardless, any concerning symptoms are to be reported.) If a sector is adequately cleared of Hiss presence, Dylan may be allowed access.

There is a working hypothesis surrounding the developments in the late Casper Darling’s research on █████ and ███████ presence in Director Faden. Currently, we are encouraging Director Faden’s continued presence around Dylan as there may be a chance it could improve his condition, though this is unproven. More research must be done.

Refer to file █████ for a complete report.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (next chapter will either be exceptionally long or split into two chapters-- I'm currently working on it, hence a slightly shorter one today. hopefully I will have it ready to post tomorrow!)


	7. Acclimation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dylan knows, undeniably, that he is a topic of gossip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter maybe could be combined with the next, bc I feel like not as much has happened, but it's already getting a bit long. There are some important set ups here though— Dylan's adjustment is not going to be a fast one.)

“Hey, Director, have you seen this yet?” A guard calls, waving her over to him. Jesse turns to look at the small swarm of security officers leaned over a desk, each pushing to get a better view and laughing over each other. Something in the back of Jesse’s mind whispers _uh oh_.

She parts her way to the computer as some of the officers quickly hush and elbow each other to shut up, giving her a polite nod that they hope proves their laughter was anything but innocent. The officer in the chair tabs through a few screens on the computer, showing her recent times in the obstacle course. There, in a blinding shade of green, reads:

**RECORDED: 03:04:26**

**RECORDED: 00:00:25**

Jesse leans in and squints.

“What am I looking at?”

The officer leans forward and taps the first string of numbers.

“Well this one, somehow, is an incredible time of three hours, four minutes, and twenty six seconds.”

“That’s _hours?”_ Jesse shoots him a sideways glance, and the gaggle of officers around all mumble their still-surprised agreement. “So that’s _—_ ”

“Twenty five seconds.” The officer taps his pen on the desk to punctuate the end of his sentence. Jesse turns to look at all the other staff around her, trying to suss out if this is some kind of joke or glitch or time-based threshold issue. They all look back at her, waiting.

“Well… whose times are they?”

The officer almost says _guess_ , but remembers he’s talking to the Director and not his security buddies, and instead casually blurts “Your brother.”

Jesse turns again to the peanut gallery, who all nod.

“ _What?_ ”

That’s all the group needs to explode into a chorus of theories, jokes, and laughter, and Jesse can hardly track it all.

“Ridiculous, right? It has to be a glitch.”

“But why would he break the cameras if it was a glitch?”

“So none of us could confirm if he really ran it, idiot.”

“I think he really did it. Who knows what he can do, you know?”

“He faked it to screw with us.”

“It is pretty funny, actually.”

“Maybe he took a nap in there. I would. Rumor is the guy hasn’t slept in a week.”

“Or he got stuck saying his Hiss freak spe _—_ ” another officer delivers an elbow to the ribs before he can finish his sentence, and he remembers that Dylan’s sister is also the Director and standing in front of him. “No offense meant, ma’am.” To his relief, Jesse laughs, shaking her head in disbelief.

“I…” she searches the ceiling for a response. _My brother_ , she thinks to herself in amusement. “...will have to ask him about it.” _What are up to, Dylan?_

* * *

Dylan spends the first three and a half days of his new found freedom wandering the Oldest House. He’s clean shaven again; after his time bedridden, he wants to leave that behind him. There’s an effort to find him new clothes as well, and in some bitter twist of irony he finds himself wearing the sweater and sweats labelled _P7_. Jesse assures him they’ll keep looking for something different. He just shrugs _—_ his stock response.

It’s only by day two that medical realizes he definitely has not been sleeping. They likely would have missed it as well, if it wasn’t for the mandatory check ins he was supposed to have. Even then, Dylan had skipped the first, casually blaming the fact that he isn’t familiar with the layout of the Oldest House, as he spent the majority of his life in one or two rooms, and therefore couldn’t ‘make his appointment’. They only got him to complete the check-in because a doctor inadvertently stumbled upon him poking around her office. Dylan seemed to understand he’d been caught and that answering the questionnaire now rather than later would be the most painless outcome, so he sighed and smiled humorlessly and sat down to answer the questions on her form.

She kindly did not ask what he was doing in her office.

She still checked to make sure nothing went missing. She doesn’t find anything gone.

The questions bore Dylan, but the doctor is kind enough to skip the more routine questions she already knows the answers to. Dylan mindlessly answers each question as it comes, poking and moving various things on her desk.

“I assume your migraines haven’t changed? Please set that down,” she says as Dylan flips through a pad of sticky notes.

“No,” he answers, sliding them back across the desk.

“Has the HRA helped? Or sleeping? Do they interrupt your sleep schedule?”

Dylan stares unfocused past the sticky notes.

“No. I haven’t slept.”

The doctor’s brow knits together.

“Because of the migraines?”

_An earworm is a tune you can’t stop humming in a dream._

“Because I don’t have to,” Dylan states.

“What do you _—_ ”

“I spent my life locked in a cage like a lab rat,” Dylan says with sudden precision, eyes sharp and focused and burning through the doctor. “I’m enjoying my freedom you so graciously granted me.”

The doctor does not flinch away. Neither does Dylan. Some form of a power struggle rests in the silence, until the doctor calmly breaks it.

“Well, you know that sleep should help your migraines. Especially if you haven’t slept. But you can do what you want. That’s all the questions _—_ ” and Dylan has already risen and left the room before she finishes her sentence.

The doctor sighs, watching the door shut. Her eyes fall to the notepad Dylan had been fiddling with. She takes it and her report to the mail tubes on the wall, sticking a note to the top of the file.

_Your brother hasn’t slept in a few days. Could affect his moods._

She debates adding anything else, decides against it, and sends it all off to the Director’s office.

* * *

Dylan knows, undeniably, that he is a topic of gossip.

All his life people have been looking at him. Like he’s behind the glass in a zoo. Like he’s pinned between two microscope slides. But now, he finds, he doesn’t mind so much. Let them see him. He can do what he wants now. They have to watch. They can’t deny his presence _—_ can’t claim he’s hidden away and classified and something unknown they can’t do anything about. Let them see. Let them talk. 

Let him listen.

Strangely, people never seem to realize that he’s eavesdropping.

It’s fun. It makes it easier to fuel the rumors. Nobody’s quite sure what to believe about him, and their reactions are quickly becoming his favorite form of entertainment. He watches the staff that are downright _terrible_ at hiding the fact that they're watching him, and laughs when he makes eye contact and they shrink away. He grins, lopsided and sarcastic, when people enter a room and seemingly remember they need to be somewhere else upon seeing him. Someone starts a rumor he can read thoughts, which gets back to him, and he wastes no time attempting to perpetuate it.

Eventually it gets back to Jesse, who rolls her eyes and tells him to stop terrorizing the researchers.

“What’s the saying?” he asks rhetorically, sitting up against some of the boxes in Central Executive. “What goes around, comes around?”

Jesse just looks at him over the stack of papers in her hand, and decides to ignore that comment.

“What is all this, anyway? You left it on my desk, right?” she asks, flipping through the pile. A few of them have yellow post-it notes on them with handwriting she thinks she recognizes.

“Dead Letters. I was reading them.”

Jesse spreads them out on the meeting table in front of her. 

“Where did you even get them?”

“The one with the pink note is my favorite.”

Jesse snatches the note, on which Dylan has scrawled _relatable_. She skims the letter— something about some guy’s dream that told him how to build a ‘new body for god’.

Again, she can’t tell if Dylan’s joking.

“Hey, have you been sleeping alright?” she asks.

“Have you?” he counters. Alright, she’ll give him that one.

“...fair point. I’ve been down in maintenance trying to deal with that clog again. I can see why Ahti hates the thing.”

Jesse finds her mouth moving faster than her brain.

“So I guess you don’t have any more dreams to tell me about then?” _Dammit. Bad joke. Bad joke. Please don’t get upset._

Dylan doesn’t respond. His eyes search the carpet, like it holds some sort of secret for him. Something clicks, and he realizes he doesn’t want to sleep or dream.

He finally laughs _—_ a one breath out, pity-amusement laugh, but Jesse will take it gladly. She’s about to apologize, when Emily comes through the door, already mid sentence, talking to herself. 

“ _—_ and I _know_ that file was in the box when I _—_ Jesse! Hey,” she smiles, looking up across the expansive table. Dylan shifts on the floor, catching Emily’s eye. “Hi Dylan!”

He pulls himself up from his spot on the floor and passes her, heading out the double doors. She watches him go, and turns back to Jesse with a questioning expression. Jesse returns a _beats me_ gesture.

“What’s up?”

“Did I leave Darling’s early research file on Hedron with you? I thought I had it in the boxes in Research, but it’s not there, so I’m _hoping_ it’s here,” she gestures to the mounds of boxes and clipboards and binders stuffed with classified material that she and a few others had moved here to Central as a base of operations. Jesse eyes the mountain of work, and her shoulders sag.

“Well. If we look together, we can find it faster,” the Director replies.

“I really hope so.”

Everyone in the cafeteria is torn between not staring and _undeniably_ staring at Dylan Faden, who is standing barefoot in one of the planters, staring up at the tops of the redwoods, muttering to himself. No doubt, he’s quietly joining the chorus of the Hiss agents floating above him. (One researcher says he might be singing, and that she’s heard him humming some sort of show tune to himself before, honest. Her coworkers laugh her off.)

Emily Pope spots Dylan when she comes in for a much needed break from sorting through files. She picks up a tray and an allocated lockdown ration and takes a seat at a table corner that has a good view of him.

She finds herself walking that careful line between paying Dylan no mind at all and over compensating. She doesn’t want to do either of those things, but she’s so worried of making him feel like a special case. Not that he _isn’t_ a special case, just not in _that_ way, not the “special project that needs fixing” way, he’s… what? 

She thinks too hard about it. Except she reminds herself that is sort of her job. 

Dylan is what? Deserving of any more scrutiny than the FBC is? Deserving equal parts apologies given and received for things that won’t ever be the same? 

There can be no finger pointing between the Bureau and Dylan— well there can, because there are obvious moral and ethical failings on all accounts. But now they’re here, with Trench and Darling dead and Dylan soaking in the limited freedom he has. His lack of trust and anger is beyond understandable, but they cannot simply hand-wave the accountability. Everyone is sifting through the consequences and broken pieces and definitely stepping on fragile pressure points in the meantime. She just wants to understand. To let him know she understands.

To be his friend, if she can. Without handling him like he’s fragile. Without making it feel like she’s doing it because she’s obligated.

The whole situation is far too complex, and now Dylan is walking past the tables to leave and Emily assumes she is certainly overthinking it all, so she blurts “Dylan!”

Dylan slows and turns to face her. He gives no tells or signs to whether he’s annoyed by her. Her coworkers pretend very poorly to not to be eavesdropping. 

“...do you want some pretzels?” she offers genuinely, eliminating any possible sliver of awkwardness in her unshakeable _Emily-ness_. 

Dylan assesses her. She thinks he does anyway. Nobody has a good read on him.

He quietly pads forward, takes a single pretzel from the generically labeled white bag, and leaves.

The cafeteria slowly resumes its normalcy, but with an added level of gossip and whispers between coworkers.

Emily counts it as a win.


	8. Assumptions/Doubts/Rebellions/Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SUPPLEMENTAL NOTE:
> 
> In reviews of the current data, a few new questions arose around Dylan’s unique infection that led me to my newest hypothesis.

Langston’s ‘robotic’ rangers forget their act when the intercom buzzes to life with a frantic voice calling for backup for an escalated Hiss attack, springing to life and vanishing out the firebreak door, both of them cursing the slow opening.

“Uh, stay safe. Good luck,” Langston says as the doors begin to shut, leaving him in the silence. He hums to himself, alone in the Panopticon again. 

The door reopens, and Langston turns to see Dylan walk in and stop in the entryway to assess the room.

Langston tries, for his own peace of mind, to consider his arrival coincidence. 

“Oh. Hi! Uhm. Are you allowed to be in here? I mean, not that you’re not allowed to go where you want, I just mean, security clearances and all. I don’t remember where specifically it was listed _—_ what I mean is, I don’t really remember your clearance.”

Dylan sits down in a chair in front of the control panel and leans back.

Langston fiddles with his tie, and it ends up more crooked than it already was.

Dylan lays his hands folded in his lap, reading all the screens and dials and buttons in front of him.

“So,” Langston starts, clearing his throat. “I uh, was looking through the files _—_ they aren’t classified for me anymore, not that _—_ you know. Anyway. I’m really curious, the files have you mentioning someone called Dog-Neil? What _—_ or who, I guess _—_ is that?” 

“Nosebleed Neil. He turned into Dog-Neil.”

“What did he look like, exactly? Like, I know you used dog to describe him because that’s all you could liken him to, but what was he like really?”

_“Like a dog.”_

“Ah. Got it,” Langston says, understanding less. 

The silence hardly settles before Langston charges forward again. 

“I read about the uh, the ‘Not-Mother’ too. Crazy stuff. Reminds me of Coraline, honestly. Have you ever seen _—_ oh no you wouldn’t have, would you. And you probably don’t want to talk about _—_ sorry, I’ll stop.” Langston swallows, looking over for any signs of push back, but Dylan is still busy reading the control panel and leans forward for a better look. “Uh. Hey, did you know I have a cat? His name is Alfred _—_ you know, after the poet? Tennyson? Can’t wait to go home and see him finally, but, you know, lockdown, but it’s okay because my neighbor will feed him. Hopefully that lockdown lifts soon, I just wanna go home.” 

“I have wanted to go home my whole life,” Dylan responds, tone even. Langston straightens up abruptly, realizing he’s dug himself into a hole.

“I _—_ of course! Right. You know, if any of us had realized how _—_ ”

“You talk too much, Langston.”

“Oh! I, well _—_ you know, not a lot of visitors make it to the Panopticon and I _—_ “

“That means shut up.”

“You got it.”

Langston does not shut up, to Dylan’s utter disappointment. To his credit, at least, Langston is only talking to himself. Something about poetry lines, and a good deal about cats and plans for after lockdown. And humming. So much humming.

Dylan tunes most of it out, watching the various camera feeds of the Panopticon available. He glances over when Langston tries to make a joke, which only makes Langston laugh nervously and give it up. 

“This is just like the intercom in Investigations. Oh, that reminds me. Fra. Got to send someone to the abandoned sector to get _—_ ”

“Abandoned sector?” Dylan asks, and Langston nearly jumps.

“Yeah! The Investigations sector. Shut behind a firebreak because there was an uh. Problem. But there isn’t a problem anymore. And there’s an Altered Item in there I have to figure out what to do with eventually. There’s a few, actually. I think Fra might be the easiest though, considering it walks and talks and. You know. Isn’t a gigantic train. So I need to…” Langston trails, noticing the glimmer in Dylan’s eye. “...stop talking about it, probably.”

“I’ll go.”

“Go _—_ what?”

“Get the Altered Item.”

“I’m. Pretty sure you aren’t allowed to do that.”

Their conversation grinds to a halt as they hear the stone _thunk_ of the firebreak door opening again. Dylan’s mouth twitches into a frown.

“He’s _not_. And I don’t want him in here,” one of the returning rangers says, entirely dropping the robot routine they usually pull on Langston.

“I can be here,” Dylan glowers from his seat. “I can go where I want.”

On the control panels, a camera feed flashes red, signaling the arrival of more Hiss. Under their helmet, Dylan can sense the ranger grin.

“No. You can’t. That’s probably your fault anyway.”

Dylan’s fingers twitch at his sides. The Rangers tense. Langston flips through the camera feeds, looking for anything else to do besides acknowledge the situation.

Dylan gets up slowly, deliberately, then disappears back through the firebreak. 

Langston peeks out before the doors shut and sees Dylan blindly flip off the Panopticon behind him.

Langston is just thankful the rangers didn’t notice.

* * *

Rangers are always watching him now. Before, some had the decency to act like they weren’t, or were too busy with other things to care. Dylan thinks they all hate him. Which is fine. He can hate them back. Some make no secret of watching him either, and tell him openly when he enters a room that he’s under surveillance. A threat, an invitation. _Stay in line or do something already._ Dylan does not hesitate to fire back, trying to meet their eyes under their helmets and goggles. Telling them that he’s always been under surveillance. That there’s a reason the Bureau decided he should be locked away. That they can test their theories if they want. 

His years of bitterness are distilled into quick, biting wit. He retaliates against every quip flung at him _—_ despite the few borderline incidents where an irritated ranger would have to be held back or reminded who Dylan's related to _._ Dylan stands his ground, unflinching, each time. 

His desire to be seen begins to dwindle.

What was once mostly gossip and hushed theorizing has quietly mutated into paranoia. The lockdown stokes it, keeps the uncertainty and anxiety burning. The whole House ripples with it _—_ some tension that has not released. A tightening cord, ready to snap. There’s whispers about Jesse and the people she’s promoted among the doubtful. Conspiracies about the Board and the House itself. Many FBC agents shoot down the gossip, brushing it off with laughter or offense. But the theories find root in a few. It’s kept hushed, secret, passed between trusted few. Carefully kept out of the ears of the higher ups. Something must be done.

Dylan is new. Not new, but _novel_. Dylan is a revelation to many. Someone who has been here all this time, who has a connection to the Hiss, who has a connection to the Director. An epicenter.

And Dylan is an easy scapegoat.

* * *

“Hey, welcome back,” Langston chirps over the intercom as Jesse exits the elevator. “The dreaded and dark Investigations sector awaits you,” he adds, and chuckles at his own introduction. She starts to respond, then remembers to walk up and push the _talk_ button first.

“Hey, Langston. Any sign of anymore… what would you call Hartman, anyway?”

“I would call him _terrifying_ , and no, no signs of anything. Good news for you! That makes checking in on our lovely Altered Items much easier. Which, by the way, your brother showed interest in Fra the other day. Uh _—_ he came by and overheard about it. Don’t think he’s gonna do anything about it though.”

“Dylan came by to visit you?” _I’m shocked he’d even give Langston the time of day without biting his head off._

“Well. No. He just sort of. Came into the Panopticon control room and stared at the cams and left.”

_There it is. That makes more sense._

“I’ll check back in as soon as I can, okay?”

“You got it, ma’am.”

Jesse picks her way through the desks and long-forgotten rooms of the _Fra Mauro_ section, levitating a light by her side in case she finds any more thick darkness to purge. By now she knows the old sector well _—_ the House hasn’t changed it much, and she helped lead a few ranger teams to clear the encroaching Hiss inside. She autopilots toward the main room, letting her mind wander across her growing list of things to do. She smiles at the thought of Dylan meeting Fra. He’d like Fra. She thinks. It’s been so long since she knew her brother, and now there was… a lot going on that made it hard. The lockdown, the Hiss. Now, complaints were filtering their way to her about Dylan’s verbal sparring matches. And the wrecked rooms, that a few were always quick to pin on Dylan, and not one of the hostile forces currently invading the House. Though those few might try and call him hostile, too.

Jesse sets the light down as she reaches the faux lunar lander and tries to think. What would she do, if she were Dylan? Locked away from everyone else, considered a danger, kept in a cell. Can she even get inside his head, picture herself in his shoes? _Does he ever wear shoes?_ she wonders jokingly. She takes a moment to just stand on the recreated moon.

What will they do when lockdown lifts? What will Dylan do?

How long will it take to chase the Hiss out of the House and out of him?

She feels like it should be daunting, but for once in her life, she feels like it's under control. The main Hiss threat is gone, and they’ve been carving away at the remnants. Emily’s charging ahead with her team, taking her new role in stride. Arish is working with the sectors to organize rations, beds, and keep security and rangers where they need to be. Dylan is here, and awake, and… _okay_. Doing good, she thinks. He’s friends with Arish. Emily _thinks_ they’re friends. Of course there’s rough spots, of course it’s not an overnight change. She knows it won't be, she doesn’t expect it to be. But after all these years Dylan is back. They can take it together one step at time. The lockdown is in effect, they don’t have to rush to figure out the future, just tomorrow. They can grow together, slowly.

It’s okay.

“Lady gerbil loosing?” the intercom on the cell chirps.

“Fra! Sorry,” Jesse says, snapping to attention, knowing he can’t hear her until she gets to the intercom. “Sorry,” she repeats, getting to the cell.

“No wrinkle!”

And she laughs, and her shoulders relax.

Things are okay.

* * *

Dylan’s exhaustion catches him in the middle of the day, after near-60 hours of forcing himself awake.

He’s on his way to the Nostalgia Sector, out of curiosity, out of boredom, after realizing it was one of the few places he hadn’t wandered. Why hadn’t he gone there yet?

He passes quietly down the halls, fighting to keep his heavy eyes open, struggling to remember his way around the expansive House. He’s thankful the lighting here is so much softer _—_ his head feels like it’s pulsing, and the darkness is nice.

He starts to descend the stairs, when his stomach flips and his head screams with pain. Dylan winces, grabbing for the railing, shutting his eyes, trying to breathe. The floor feels like it’s spinning under him, like it's slipping away. _What’s happening?_ he thinks.

 _Building shifts occur at random and without warning,_ his subconscious repeats the _Threshold Kids_ line.

“Piss off,” Dylan hisses, eyes squeezed shut, hands pressed against his temples. He sinks down onto the floor, trying to ground himself.

“Do you need help?”

“ _Piss off!”_ Dylan answers, realizing too late he shouldn’t have shouted as his head thrums in response. He shrinks in on himself, realizing somewhere in the back of his mind that someone else is there with him. Someone is speaking, their voice low and quiet.

“Hey, alright. I just want to make sure you’re alright and don’t need anything.”

Dylan cracks an eye open slowly, and it’s far, far too bright out, but he registers the ranger crouched in front of him. _Great._

“I’m Wells, I’m a medic. Do you need _—_ ”

“No.” _Leave me alone. Don’t look at me._

Wells pauses, watching Dylan. He checks around the hall, looking for anyone else, or anything that could be an external factor to whatever Dylan was dealing with.

“Migraine?” he asks softly.

“ _I. Don’t. Want. You. Here,_ ” Dylan snaps, trying to focus on breathing and not throwing up. “ _I’m fine._ ” _I don’t need help. I don’t need pity. I don’t need some ranger trying to get close to me._

A minute or two passes. Or longer. To Dylan, it could be hours. He hears Wells’ clothing shift as the medic stands and finally leaves. 

Eventually, Dylan opens his eyes and stands. 

_I’m fine_ , he tells himself, and shakes himself off, and keeps walking, ignoring the sleep in his eyes, and the stumbling in his step. 

_Everything’s fine._

Emily finds him two hours later.

She hears him, first. In her walk back from another one of Darling’s satellite labs. She decides to make a pass through the Nostalgia sector, partially to keep walking and rolling the problems around in her mind, partially to look for any clues or hints about the Hiss and the Slide Projector.

“ _Leave your insides by the door. Push the fingers through the surface into the wet. You’ve always been the new you_.”

The sound echoes softly down the halls, and she walks faster as soon as she hears it, following it around a corner. She gasps, hesitating, heart pounding, seeing him levitating in an open lobby, a mirror image of his time in Central Executive. Something he hasn’t done _since_ then.

_What do I do? Do I watch this, observe it? Do I get someone, get Jesse? Do I leave him alone? Am I intruding? Am I safe?_

Dylan slowly lowers until his feet touch the ground, and then collapses under his own weight.

_Is he okay?_

“Dylan,” Emily calls, rushing forward, fumbling for her radio on her belt, thankful for the maintenance and security team finally getting them working. She reaches his side and kneels, gently reaching out for his shoulder without hesitation.

She watches him breathe and checks for a pulse and lets out a sigh of relief. 

_Just sleeping_.

She keys her radio and calls for help.

* * *

**DYLAN FADEN MEDICAL RELEASE: HISS INFECTION**

**SUPPLEMENTAL**

  
  


**\--CONFIDENTIAL--**

  
  


**COMPILED BY: EMILY POPE, HEAD OF RESEARCH**

**BY ORDER OF: DIRECTOR JESSE FADEN**

  
  
  
  


SUPPLEMENTAL NOTE: 

In reviews of the current data, a few new questions arose around Dylan’s unique infection that led me to my newest hypothesis. The question lies within the fact that Dylan, unlike any other example of Hiss infection we have recorded, has remained himself and lucid to some degree.

There are many things we could ask _—_ how much has Dylan been in control? Does the Hiss have less influence over him now, after ██████████████████? 

What makes Dylan different?

At first, things such as Hedron/███████ were considered. His status as a powerful parautilitarian could also be a cause. It could even be genetic _—_ something within the Faden family. However, upon reviewing Dylan’s conversation with Director Faden in Central Executive (refer to multimedia █████████), this conversation stood out:

**D.F.:** They opened the door up to the Hiss. That’s the only thing I can thank them for. 

**D.F. (incantation):** An ear worm is a tune you can’t stop humming in a dream. Baby, baby, baby, yeah. Just plastic. So safe, nothing to worry about. Hahaha, funny.

 **D.F.:** I welcomed the Hiss. I let it in. To get rid of ███. The Hiss set me free.

Did Dylan choose to be infected? Or is this just another trick of the Hiss resonance? Could this be why Dylan still experiences the incantation?

Research is inconclusive.


	9. Spiraling

The sprawling dump in Ordinary, to most, is a trash heap they warn their kids to stay out of. Most kids agree to stay away, because of the guard at the dilapidated front gate with the dog whose bark echoes across the piles of garbage, and the loud equipment, and the sometimes musty smell.

The Faden siblings know the dump is a treasure trove. They know the dog is named Oscar and likes sandwich crusts and scratches under his collar. They know where the gate falls away or pulls back like a book page, big enough for them to duck under. They know the guard is old and usually busy fiddling with the HAM radio in the front building. The Ordinary dump is _their_ dump, and they know it better than anyone.

They stand at the fence line under the grey sky, backpacks still slung over their shoulders from school. Jesse ties her flannel around her waist and rolls up her shirt sleeves. Dylan holds his lunchbox close to his chest, watching his sister tug the broken edge of the chain link open as wide as she can.

“I can’t pull it any further,” she strains, and Dylan shuffles through the opening, ducking so his backpack squeezes past the pole, holding his lunchbox like precious cargo. As soon as he’s through, Jesse releases the fence, and it resonates, metal on metal. Dylan looks at her, red hair falling out of the ponytail it was put into hours ago, waiting for her go-ahead. She grins at him.

“Still got him in there?”

He flips the latch and cracks the box open a smidge, peering in. A pair of yellow bullfrog eyes peer back out at him.

“Yep! Do you think he’s comfortable?” Dylan asks, shutting it again gently. Jesse twists her face up in thought.

“Maybe. You took everything out right? Your ice pack and stuff?”

“Yeah, it’s all in my backpack.” He wiggles back and forth and his backpack’s contents jumble audibly. 

“Then it’s fine,” Jesse smiles, turning on her heel to face the dump. “We’re gonna put him in a tank in a minute anyway. And then we’ll let him go free, where Tom and Hugo won’t be able to torment him anymore.” Dylan’s lunchbox rattles in his hands as the frog makes a sorry attempt to jump.

Together, they pick their way through the piles of twisted metal and paper and junk, all the way to the far end of the dump. Dylan points out their personal landmarks as they go. The TV mountain, the bicycle tangle, Mrs. Jensen’s old car that’s an ugly shade of yellow. At some point, he feels they get turned around passing the bicycle tangle of metal and flat tires and tubes again, but Jesse insists they’re on the right path. Sure enough, they arrive at their personal hideout. The Junk Cave. 

Really, it was less of a cave, and more a comfortable hollow in a mound of dirt and degrading trash. They had to duck to get in, and walk a winding path, but it led to a space they could _nearly_ stand up in, and it was big enough for them to dump their bags and bring in any treasures they found in the junk piles. A chewed up half-empty bean bag and a pile of pillows worked as their chairs. Enough light filtered in from the tunnel, but they had a stash of still-good flashlights regardless. 

Jesse found a stereo with a busted speaker and a cassette jammed in the front, but the CD player worked, so they kept it for their hideout. Jesse would borrow Dad’s CDs from the car’s center console and listen to them here. Dylan had found a box full of Lego, and immediately hauled it back to keep as well. Sure, all of it was still technically trash— but now it was theirs.

Now they had a cracked (but mostly whole) fish tank situated in the middle. It took up most of the space, but they had grabbed it anyway to try and keep bugs and toads in. After Dylan saved the bullfrog from getting stomped on at lunch, he rushed to find Jesse and ask if they could keep him in the tank.

“We should get some dirt for him. And some plants,” Dylan says, opening his lunch and setting it in the tank. 

“We’re not going to keep him though. We gotta let him go. Keeping him would be kinda mean, he’s not a pet frog. He can hang out in just the tank for now I think. ‘Cause he’s just visiting,” Jesse replies, flopping up against the pillows and slinging her bag down to her feet.

“Do you think he’ll jump out? Maybe we should cover the top of the tank.”

Jesse points to the other side of their hollow at a partially ripped window screen. Dylan blinks in surprise _—_ was that always there? _—_ before placing it over the tank and fishing out his ice pack to add weight to the top.

“I’m going to keep working on our map,” Jesse says, fishing a notebook out and flipping through it. Dylan falls back into the beanbag and nearly touches the floor. 

“Did you get your colored pencils back from your teacher?” he asks, digging for a _Choose Your Own Adventure_ from the school library he keeps loose in his bag with the rest of his class papers.

“Yes! It took _so long_ ,” Jesse groans. “We had to use them for a history project so I asked for them back. It was dumb to take them away from me anyway. I can draw and pay attention.”

Dylan turns to where he stuck his laminated student card between the book pages.

“I hope I don’t get your teacher next year. She sounds mean.”

“My teacher’s a guy,” Jesse replies, carefully dotting red and orange trees across her notebook page. Dylan’s eyebrows knit together.

“I thought you had Mrs. Matthus.”

“Who are you talking about?” Jesse snaps, and her tone stings, making Dylan flinch in surprise. It isn’t like Jesse to bite back at him like that. It makes it sting even more. Dylan shrinks and turns back to his book. 

“I guess I remembered wrong.”

“Yeah. My teacher is Mr. Trench.” Dylan’s stomach lurches. _Trench?_ “And trust me, you _don’t_ want him. Here, can you draw the school? You do buildings better.” Jesse holds the notebook out to him, cover flopping forward. Dylan takes it, face still twisted in confusion. He can feel a weight pressing against his chest. Jesse frowns.

“Are you okay?”

“I _—_ I don’t know.”

“Hugo didn’t try and make fun of you again today, did he?” she asks, already preparing herself to get mad at Hugo regardless.

“No, he didn’t. I… I just feel tired, I guess.” Dylan stares past Jesse’s notebook, fingers mindlessly tracing the wire spine.

Jesse opens her mouth to reply, but is cut off before a sound leaves her mouth.

“Kids! Jesse, Dylan!” a voice calls, muffled by the trash piles around them. Dylan grips the notebook tighter. Jesse straightens, giving him a wide eyed look of confusion.

 _Who is that?_ her expression asks wordlessly.

“Come on out now. We need to talk to you.” 

“We?” Jesse whispers.

Tentatively, Dylan sets the notebook down and shifts onto his hands and knees. He shuffles through the dirt, peering out the entrance, and finds the tunnel much shorter than he remembers. At the end, he can see several pairs of feet. They don’t look like security guards _—_ he sees slacks and dress shoes and uniforms. A lot of them. 

_Are we in trouble?_

Dylan turns back to Jesse for guidance. She shrugs and shakes her head, wide eyed.

Dylan crawls forward. Dread creeps up his stomach and into his throat until the panic is too tight. Outside, he sees the FBC employees looming. Director Trench is in the middle, reaching out to Dylan. 

Dylan whips around, yelling for Jesse, only to see her reach up into the junk-filled ceiling and pull the tunnel shut.

“No!” Dylan screams, digging his fingers into the pile, trying to wrench the entrance back open. “Jesse, wait!” Hands wrap around his middle and pull him away. He scrabbles at the ground, fingers begging for some sort of grip to pull him back to safety, and instead watches the safety of their hideout shrink away.

Dylan blinks away the tears streaming down his face and finds himself on a plane. A very fancy one, where the seats face each other and you can walk around and no adults tell you to sit down. Casper Darling is sitting across from Dylan, smiling. Dylan picks at the edge of the leather seat.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Dylan,” Darling reassures him.

“You won’t leave me, will you?”

“I never will.”

The sun filters in through the window so bright that Dylan has to squint. He shields his eyes, and when he pulls his hand away, he’s in the Bureau.

Darling is gone. 

_You said you wouldn’t leave me._

Dylan is abandoned.

Through the glass surrounding him, he can see a cluster of people in lab coats. They have clipboards and notebooks and compare notes and point and whisper and watch. He scans anxiously for Darling, or for Jesse, or anyone he knows to come and save him. In the midst of the researchers he can pick out Emily Pope. She’s watching him intently, standing alone among the scientists who have formed little groups to discuss theories. Dylan watches her back, hopeful. Emily takes out a pen and scratches down notes, pointing at Dylan, nudging the other scientists.

 _I want to be somewhere else,_ Dylan thinks. _See something else._

A blue shimmer flashes in front and behind his eyes. He can see Jesse in the shimmer, somewhere in the world. She’s by herself, but she isn’t alone. She isn’t abandoned. And she’s laughing. The blue shimmer laughs, too.

Something inside Dylan boils. His fists tighten, fingernails digging into his palms. He feels his hand clench around a grip, and looks down. 

The Service Weapon.

“You never deserved to hold it.”

Dylan’s eyes flick up to see Trench seated at his desk in the Director’s office.

“Neither did you,” Dylan answers. He raises his hand, but the Service Weapon is gone. Dylan blinks, staring at his hand, wondering where it could have vanished to, until his eyes catch the shape of it in Trench’s hand. The Director levels it at him. 

It fires.

Dylan is in the Director’s office. He has the Service Weapon in hand. It’s leveled at the Director behind the desk.

It’s leveled at Jesse.

Something bitter burns in Dylan’s throat that makes his eyes burn with tears.

“You never deserved to hold it,” he hisses at her.

He pulls the trigger.

Jesse reflexively pulls up a shield of debris _—_ the wooden desk and carpet and stone walls _—_ and it all crumbles around her and Dylan. Dylan watches it all break into fractals and crumble and fall until he’s left standing in the junked remains of it all, alone. He turns around, taking stock of where he is.

He’s in the Ordinary dump.

Jesse is gone.

_You said you wouldn’t leave me._

He can hear the Dung Monkeys in the dump. They’re screaming and howling, chasing someone. Dylan moves toward the sound, stepping barefoot through the cold dirt and trash. He follows the sound to his hideout in the junk. Their screeching reverberates through the tunnel and a red glow bathes the dirt blood red.

Something in Dylan tells him to crawl inside. Something else in him screams no.

He drops to his knees and pushes through the tunnel.

It is very, very loud inside. He can’t see the Dung Monkeys anywhere, but he can hear them, screeching and screaming and taking up every inch of air with their sound. It makes his ears feel like they’re bleeding.

The tunnel twists and turns forever and ever, until it opens up to a bigger room than Dylan remembers. The slide projector is inside, glowing bright red, saturating the whole room in its glow. The space feels cold.

Dylan stands to his feet, hands shaking. He can barely hear anything. His eyes dart frantically around the red room. Jesse is there, standing at the projector. He is there too _—_ he can see himself, pressing the Service Weapon up to her temple. He can see himself grin, eyes cold and empty. He can see his finger tense around the trigger. Jesse doesn’t flinch.

Dylan jerks awake, alone in a darkened room, clutching at the cot and blanket under him. He struggles to breathe, gasping like he’s been underwater, searching the dark for something familiar.

He spies the painting on the wall through the dark, and remembers where he is. 

He tries to sit up, but is kept back by restraints around his wrists. Dylan, again, remembers where he is, and lets his head hit the pillow.

A prison.

A cold, empty, prison.

His breathing evens, and he shuts his eyes.

All he wants is to be left alone. Not _be_ alone, but be left alone.

And all he wants is to get out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I really wanted to dwell on the beginning portion of this dream more, of Jesse and Dylan as kids together in the dump. But it's a bit off, being a dream, and it had to change eventually. But now I just want to write fic of them hanging out as kids!!


	10. Conspiracies

Emily finds Jesse perched in a sloping cement window in Central Research. She’s sat at the furthest open edge, watching the faux-sunlight pour down onto the stretching redwoods with her knees pulled up to her chest, pressing her back against the cool cement. Emily emerges from the elevator across from it, catching Jesse’s attention as it arrives with a _ding_.

“Jesse, hey,” Emily smiles warmly. “I’m lucky I found you. We _are_ near the Luck and Probability department, so maybe that has a hand in it.” Jesse smirks, stretching out and pressing her soles against the wall.

“Yeah. That lab is uh… a lot to take in sometimes.”

Emily steps forward toward the opening, then stops, unsure how to continue or what to say. Jesse gestures to the extra space.

“Wanna join me?”

Emily smiles, but hesitates. Jesse tilts her head and waits. 

“You know, we have chairs downstairs,” Emily says as she pulls herself up, sitting with her back to the opposite wall. “And in just about every office around here.” 

“Sometimes you just need to find a window with a big ledge and sit there and stare out at the world, you know?” Jesse replies, turning to look out at the trees. “Of course, the House doesn’t have windows, but. At least there’s trees here. And all of Ahti’s plants.”

“That’s true. I spent a lot of breaks researching the history of those trees and how long they’ve been in the House. There was some debate if they were even actually trees for a while.”

They both sit in silence together, peering out the window to the trees and winding stairs below. Somewhere in the distance, a projector is steadfastly running, its quiet clicking echoing softly across the open room. 

Emily remembers her initial goal in setting out to find Jesse and takes a deep breath.

“So… how’s Dylan been?” she asks. Jesse blinks in surprise.

“I was just going to ask you the same thing. Didn’t you go see him today?” Emily’s eyes fall to the clipboard in her lap for a moment as she crosses her arms sheepishly.

“He… did not want to see me. And he made it very clear. So I respected that and stayed out of his room.” Jesse tries and fails to hide her obvious disappointment.

“He still hasn’t left the room?”

“Not that I know of. I tried asking the doctors, and even they are having some trouble cooperating with him, but said he’s otherwise in good health. I think only you have managed to spend any substantial amount of time with him since his last Hiss episode. He really doesn't want anyone in there with him. Though he did wake up to a whole lot of new things to deal with coming at him from every possible direction, emotionally and physically. Or it could even be the Hiss infection is less troubling for him when he stays in his room,” Emily offers, always theorizing, trying to encourage Jesse when even she is feeling lost at sea. She bites back all the other budding questions she has, the possible solutions they could reach. 

Jesse turns back to the trees. There’s a lot she wants to say that she can’t find the words for, that already feels assumed. All the cliche platitudes about things taking time and being there for him sound true but so hollow and so _late_. She watches the redwoods ever so slightly sway, and briefly wonders if that’s the House’s doing. It will take time. All of it will. Changing the FBC, clearing the Hiss, helping Dylan. They’re here now, and they’re working, right? That’s what matters.

Emily looks at the report on her clipboard a coworker had passed on to her. It details the suspicion and minor investigation of Darling’s missing papers. Dylan is the prime suspect, and they want the go-ahead to look into it in a more official capacity. 

She looks up at Jesse, who’s still watching the ancient redwoods.

“You wanna go take a break or something?” Jesse asks, turning to face her. “A break that doesn’t involve research. I bet you Arish could round us up some beers.”

Emily tucks the paper back under her others and decides to hold it, for now.

“I’d like that. Based on all Arish has been talking about lately, I think he would too.”

* * *

The NSC Power Plant looms over Arish. The chamber picks up every minute groan and shift in the metal, and the pipes occasionally thump and creak. Thankfully, the Hiss concentration here has gotten lower as their ranks have thinned, but there are still a few pitiful attempts to disrupt operations. Arish finishes his general sweep checking in with everyone and everything, stopping at his old hold-out point from when the crisis started. For about the eighteenth time that week, he finds himself preoccupied with trying to figure out Jesse’s hint about Northmoor’s fate. He’s snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of heavy, but nonetheless polite, knocking on the doorframe. He turns to find one of the rangers from Maintenance, McBride, waiting for permission to come in.

“Hey,” Arish smiles. “Everything all good in your sector with the pipes? What’s up?” McBride steps in, shutting the door behind him.

“Everything’s good in our sector still, yeah. I just wanted to come bring something to your attention personally, in private. It should probably be kept confidential for now.”

“Sure. What’s up?” 

McBride waits a moment.

“Can you keep it secret from the Director?”

Arish frowns. 

“I _—_ what’s this about?” he asks tentatively. McBride holds his hands out, open palmed.

“I’m only taking this to you because we know you’re trustworthy. We all care about you a lot, and we’ve all been talking about it, and something really needs to be done.”

“We? McBride _—_ ”

“It’s about the Faden brother. Dylan.” He holds his hand out to slow Arish from interrupting him. “Look, I know you think you’re friends with him, but that’s _—_ that’s part of where the worry comes from. Look, Arish. Simon. Don’t you think he’s just trying to get close to you?” Arish stares at the ranger, his usual friendly disposition is long gone.

“I’m pretty sure that’s how friends work.”

“C’mon, Arish. You think the maniac really wants to be friends with you?” Arish tries to cut him off, but McBride pushes forward. “You’re practically head of security. You really think this isn’t some ploy to get close to you so he can get away with what he wants?”

“No. I don’t.”

“But you’ve got to look at the evidence. The freak’s still infected with the Hiss, and he’s already been caught in some sort of ‘episode’.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you, this is something you can bring up with Director Faden if you’re so concerned,” Arish states, moving to open the door and usher McBride out. The ranger cuts him off, dashing to stand in front of him. Arish’s patience wears thin.

“But that’s the point, Arish! The Director is his sister. What experience does she have? What does she understand about the FBC, about us?”

“I trust Jesse completely. Are you kidding me? She pulled us back from the brink of chaos in this lockdown.”

“And none of the old blood survived. Think about it, Arish, come on. The Board appoints Faden and she lets her psycho brother infected with the Hiss traipse around wherever he wants? Something’s wrong here. They’re trying to change the FBC, trying to get rid of us. And we’re letting them, Arish. Look what happened to your old squad, with _—_ ”

Arish’s expression darkens instantly and his voice evens.

“Get out.”

“Arish _—_ ”

It takes every fiber of his being to open the door and simply clench his jaw, waiting for McBride to leave. To take the hint. McBride doesn’t leave right away.

“Look. Just so you know, a few of us rangers and some researchers talked, and we _know_ that Dylan is stealing Darling’s research papers. We brought it to Pope. Something has to be done, or we’re all not making it out of this lockdown.”

Arish waits. McBride finally turns on his heel to leave, shaking his head.

“Simon, I’m sorry _—_ ”

“I’ll bring this to Jesse. Don’t do anything else stupid, McBride.”

“Just. Tell me you’ll think about it.”

Arish shuts the door, leaving the ranger outside in the shadow of the power plant.

_Something has to be done._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter today, my apologies! Felt like the most natural break before the next events :) (mcbride is just a name i snatched out of a generator so the ranger wouldn't be nameless ;) )


	11. You Want to Listen, You Want to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to tell you about a dream I had last night.

Dylan drifts restlessly in and out of sleep. He’s exhausted, though he hasn’t left his room at all, and loses track of the days. The dreams plague him. He finds himself groping through the fog in his mind, trying to separate memory and dream. His comatose dreams drift back into his view and blend with his near-identical days spent in the Panopticon cell. 

Sometimes his dreams draw directly from his memories, and it all feels so real. He dreams things he doesn’t think are memories. Maybe they are. Sometimes he feels like he’s viewing things as an observer. The discomfort sticks with him, hanging on his bones, gripping him tightly. The dreams blur and blend and leave him motion sick.

It’s never till he wakes up that he remembers where he is, feeling the bitter bile settle in his stomach. Part of him wishes to fall asleep again. Part of him just wants out.

Part of him wants to raise hell, burn it all down into ashes, like the slides, so they can never cause any harm again. 

Instead, he lays on the cot in the FBC office they call his room, tangled in the blanket, staring at the ceiling. He could get up and wander, with his newfound “freedom”— but how long until they whisper and point and lash out, or blame him, or tighten the leash on him? How many of them watch him, the FBC’s experiment, the FBC’s pet, now out in the halls where they can observe him and analyze him and make theories and tell him how he feels.

He hopes Jesse will come by again.

He’s chased nearly everyone he could from coming to his room, though very few people ever do outside of researchers and doctors. But Jesse visits. Like he wished she would for years. Part of it feels pointless, like she’s too late. He doesn’t talk to her. She just sits in the space with him. Letting the silence hang, trying to decide if there’s words to say. And there are, but they don’t say any of them. He wishes she’d visit anyway. Even though he keeps chasing everyone out. 

They’re afraid of him.

He doesn’t know how he feels about it. He likes it. He doesn’t.

He doesn’t know how to feel about Jesse’s new role as Director. 

Director. Just like they wanted him to be. Like they wanted her to be. They used to spy on her and trapped him and watched, like they were some experiment, some documentary, not people.

Jesse promises things will change. She’s Director now. She’s here now.

He likes it. He doesn’t.

He feels his thoughts melt and blur into a fog and blinks heavily until he finds himself in a dream again. He tries to remember he’s dreaming this time, to hold onto the lucidity some, to wake himself up. He clutches the blanket like a tether.

Dylan dreams he’s standing in his old cell.

A memory. He remembers this. Doesn’t he? All the scientists around him have left _—_ on Darling’s warning, or because of a lockdown alarm, or… something. And they left him here. They just left him.

_Weren’t there people here? There were people here. Am I dreaming?_

Polaris is in his head. He hates her, he _hates_ her, he hates when she shows him his sister, like he can do anything, like Polaris _can’t_ do anything to get him out. She just taunts him. Salt on the wound. What doesn’t she understand? Get out. _Get out, get out, get out._

The Hiss is coming. He remembers that. The red glow filling his room and his vision. The sound pushing in until it’s all he can hear. It’s looking for him. It wants to find him. 

Polaris won’t leave this time. Before, Dylan just shut her out until she gave up. But now she holds onto him. She _will not_ leave. She worms even further into his head now. _You are a worm through time_. Like when they were kids. _Grow brighter_. Dylan tries to push her out. She’s not welcome. What gives her the right? He’s screaming for her to get out. _The thunder song distorts you._

The Hiss arrives. It hears him. It tries to get in. 

It can push Polaris out. It can make Dylan stronger. Free him.

He lets it.

It feels good. 

Polaris is gone. He’s not alone anymore. It feels powerful. It feels right.

_Does it?_

Dylan is in some FBC lab. Darling is in front of him. _Casper_. It makes Dylan sneer. _Hedron. Darling. You’re the reason I’m here._

“Why don’t you try your powers, Dylan? Let’s see what you can do.”

There’s a guard in front of Dylan. He remembers this.

Could he change it? Could he change what happens?

Darling is standing nearby, grinning like an _idiot._ Dylan feels something inside him coil into spite. It makes Dylan smile too. He can show Darling his powers. Easily. He turns to face him, and watches the doctor’s face fall into fear. Dylan raises his hands in a flash of bright light.

The light clears, and Dylan can see Jesse sitting at her desk. The Director’s desk. The Board is looming over her _—_ a giant void, a seeping darkness, a pyramid pointed down directly toward Jesse’s head. Polaris is there, in Jesse’s mind, flickering and pulsing. They both push Jesse. They claim to guide her. Dylan can see them manipulating her every move. They’re a leech on his sister. Jesse doesn’t seem to care _—_ she just smiles plainly, working at paperwork at the desk. Endless, endless paperwork. Copies and copies and copies. Regulations, permissions. Redacted words. Dylan tries to wake her up, to make her see what’s wrong. The FBC, Polaris’ lies, the Board’s corruption in her. He calls her name, but she can’t hear him. 

Or she ignores him.

Abandons him.

_A puppet._

“ _Pata kattilaa soimaa,_ ” a voice behind him says, and Dylan flinches in surprise.

“What?” he asks, wheeling around to see the janitor from before, mopping out in the halls. He remembers him. He was in another dream. Dylan passes through the door to the janitor.

“You must talk to her,” the man adds, not looking up from his task.

_Ask her to let us out. She won’t ever understand. You must convince her. She wants to listen. She wants to dream. She wants to say these words._

“About what?” Dylan asks. His head starts to thrum with pain. Bad question. Don’t ask that. The janitor sighs heavily, muttering to himself and shaking his head. Dylan isn’t sure how much he likes him. But talking to him feels important. Even though this is just a dream.

“I’ve always liked Security. Respect for elders. Listen to him.”

Dylan feels himself being pulled away, sliding backwards. Or… the world around him is sliding. And he’s standing still. The shapes around him shift and morph and make him feel sick, until they settle again.

The janitor is gone.

The world around him settles _—_ glass and carpet and wood panels.

Central Executive.

In his glass box.

This time, he’s wearing an HRA. It makes him weak. It makes him tired. Sick.

_Don’t you see? You’re a prisoner still. Hedron is keeping you here. The FBC is keeping you here. Don’t you want out?_

_Yes. Yes, I want to leave._

Dylan tries the door on his cage, but it’s locked. His grip tightens around the handle and pulls, but he’s exhausted.

_It’s Hedron. Polaris is trying to use you. The Bureau is trying to use you. Restrain you._

Dylan feels his throat tighten as he swallows back angry tears.

_It’s all the same. No one is here for you._

Dylan’s knuckles go white as he grips the door.

_The Hiss can set you free. We hate Darling. We hate Polaris. We can escape the Oldest House._

The door opens, and he lets go, looking up to meet the face of his sister.

_Don’t you hate Jesse, too?_

His sister. He’s been waiting all these years, and she’s finally here. She was looking for him. She has to see it, she has to see what’s wrong here. She went to the Prime Candidate program when he asked. She has to understand. 

His headache comes back, splitting his skull apart. _We can bring you what you want._ He starts to speak along with the Hiss.

_You want to listen._

_You want to dream._

_You want to smile._

_You want to hurt._

He can feel the tears streaming down his face, but can’t bring himself to move. His headache disappears in a flood of instant relief as the words wash over him. This is okay. Maybe it’s right. Maybe _—_

Dylan jerks awake to the sound of someone knocking on his door, clutching the blanket under him, breathing hard. The door cracks open slightly, and Dylan rubs his eyes, trying to ground himself, bracing for whatever doctor and test they try to force him through, bitterly awaiting the inevitable.

Nothing happens. 

He doesn’t dare cast a glance at the door. Maybe they’ll assume he’s sleeping and leave him alone.

Instead, he hears Arish whisper,

“Faden? You up?”

Dylan blinks in surprise, then tries to compose himself. What is this?

“Dylan?” Arish whisper-yells. A very small part of Dylan wants to laugh.

“Simon Arish,” he replies, voice croaky-er than he expected. Arish pushes the door open further, sticking his head in, sheepishly smiling in the dark.

“Oh, you are up. Did I wake you? Sorry. I was just going to ask how you were. I need to go to the Quarry and could use a buddy.”

Dylan tries to process each part of the sentence. He squints up at the ceiling tiles in confusion. _Buddy?_

“The Bureau says I can’t go to the black rock quarry,” he replies, still spitting out _Bureau_ like a curse.

Arish checks out in the hall behind him before stepping in and tugging the door shut behind him.

“Okay, well, I’m saying you can. As head of security. Or whatever. You gotta come see the stars there, at least,” he says, before considering and adding, “If you want to, I mean.”

Is this pity? A scheme to catch Dylan breaking rules? A way to keep an eye on him?

A small fire of rebellion against the FBC melds with rebellion against the negative in Dylan’s mind.

“Stars?”

“Yeah man. A whole sky’s worth. Thought you might want to see it.”

Dylan hauls himself up to sit, facing Arish.

“Yeah. I’ll come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ironically, this chapter got cut shorter than I wanted because of my science work I had to complete. But that means my next chapter is more written than it is outline, so chapter 12 should be up tomorrow :D


	12. Breaking Archetypes

There is no ranger presence outside Dylan’s door when the pair leave. Something in him can’t accept it. It’s just too good to be true. Arish gives Dylan a toothless grin that wordlessly says _I got rid of the rangers,_ which _should_ be reassuring, but... The side of his mouth twitches into a non-committal smile before falling back to a blank face.

Dylan figures it must be “night shift” now _—_ heaven knows he never kept track of time easily in the FBC, especially now after his drifting consciousness. But the halls are fairly empty. And unless Arish somehow convinced all the staff to leave them alone, it must be rather late. In FBC terms. He doesn’t even know if anyone here is keeping track of time.

Arish carves on ahead through the twisting halls, striking a good balance between giving Dylan space and making sure he isn’t left behind. Dylan watches the House’s character change as they walk _—_ the old offices and patterned carpet shifting into stark rock and angles. Something entirely unfamiliar to him in the Oldest House. Not unlike the friendly treatment he’s receiving. It has him on defense _—_ braced and ready, quietly cataloguing every action and word looking for motive. Arish seems strangely quiet to Dylan. He never knew him before he fell into a coma, but their time together was usually filled with stories from Arish or swear-filled card games. Dylan realizes in that moment he’s only ever known Arish to be a friend. It makes the doubt in his stomach churn.

At some point in their walk, Dylan lapses into the Hiss incantation. He doesn’t even realize he’s stopped walking until it’s over, his feet touching the cold tile again as he comes back down to earth. He expects Arish to be long gone _—_ scared off or defensive, getting help or someone to contain him. But as Dylan blinks his vision back into focus, he sees Arish is standing at the end of the hall, both keeping an eye on Dylan and trying to politely look elsewhere. He spots him and smiles, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

“Ready to go?”

Dylan stares for a moment before giving Arish a shrug, and the two continue on.

They reach a stark, black wall with a security door set in the side, and Arish produces a keycard to unlock it. He pauses in opening the door as Dylan comes closer, brow knitting together.

“You want some shoes or something?” Arish asks, nodding in Dylan’s direction. “There’s a lot of loose rock and junk in there.” Dylan scans Arish, scraping for even a figment of an accusation he could level at him. Finally he slowly asks,

“What game are you playing at?”

Arish doesn’t have an answer for that.

“...the shoes?”

“Why are you taking me out here,” Dylan clarifies, stating it more than asking it. “Making the rangers leave. Breaking Bureau rules. Do they want you to watch me?”

Arish takes a deep breath, swearing as the pin drops, shaking his head.

“None of that,” he shrugs. “Promise. I just figured you’d wanna see this part of the House _—_ it’s arguably the coolest area we know about. Or that I know about. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, of course. But I got a keycard and Jesse probably won’t care that we’re doing this, so…”

Dylan… doesn’t know what to make of that. It doesn’t compute _—_ doesn’t fit his constructed plans and assumptions.

“And I did want to talk to you about something, but it’s nothing _—_ well. It’s nothing specifically FBC related. It’s just something I think you should know.”

It fits his assumptions a little.

Arish pushes the door open a little further, waiting for Dylan to make a choice.

“Last chance on the shoes though. Long way back.”

Dylan stares past the door, sorting through his options in his head.

He steps through the door, despite the instincts and defenses screaming _no_ , and turns to wait for Arish.

“Lead the way, Security.”

* * *

Dylan breaks the long silence in their walk, catching Arish pleasantly off guard.

“There’s stars at the Quarry? It’s outside?”

There’s something different in Dylan’s stilted tone _—_ a carefully restrained curiosity, an eagerness. It sinks in fully for Arish that this will be the closest Dylan has been to anything outdoors in years.

“I guess? As close to ‘outside’ as you can get indoors. The House is like that. It’s not any set of constellations I recognize up there. But when you can’t leave, it’s the next best thing,” Arish answers, referencing the lockdown, but cringing internally as he realized what he said. Dylan doesn’t seem to react, so he tries not to draw attention to it. Now, though, Arish feels like he’s broken a bit of ground _—_ maybe he can push forward a little. Tentatively. 

Arish picks his next words carefully.

“You never get a chance to come to the Quarry?”

The silence only lasts a few seconds, but Arish feels the weight of every single one.

“No,” Dylan finally answers. “I learned about it. Black Rock. Darling’s new favorite project. After he gave up on his P6 project.”

Arish’s eyebrows shoot up. _Damn._ Maybe that’s already enough of that.

“You said you wanted to tell me something,” Dylan says, clearly signaling a subject change. Arish clears his throat.

“Yeah. I wanted to get to you with this before anyone else did. As a friend.” Dylan tries not to scoff at that. “I’m just gonna lay it out because there’s no point in trying to dance around it, but there’s some rangers that have it out for you.” Dylan shoots Arish a look. “I know you already know that, obviously. I mean…” Arish comes to a stop, fishing for the right words.

Dylan’s stare nearly bores right through him.

“I don’t want to make you paranoid, but just be on the lookout. It’s not every ranger, either, some of them are really open about this all. It’s just. Someone’s convinced you’ve been stealing Bureau documents, and I’m afraid some idiot’s gonna try and go over Jesse’s head or something.” Something flickers in Dylan’s eyes before instantly being replaced with a pokerface. 

_I need to secure those. Destroy them,_ he thinks.

“Which, uh. I haven’t told Jesse about this yet. But you need to know this is happening.” Arish ends his sentence by sticking his hands out as if to say _there it is_.

Dylan takes a moment to digest it.

A radio chirps down one of the branching corridors, signaling the approach of a few patrolling rangers. Arish rolls his eyes, punctuating it with a few choice words before moving forward again, making sure Dylan still follows him. Despite it all, he’s still trailing along behind.

“You’re security head,” Dylan says, keeping his voice low. “I’m the Bureau’s failed project and enemy number one. Why would I trust you?” 

It stings. 

“You came out here with me, right?” Arish offers, checking the next door they come across to make sure it’s all clear. “That’s gotta be worth something.” He can’t find a good answer that would stand any defense in Dylan’s eyes. The FBC logo on his uniform is already enough to sow doubt and he knows it. 

Arish stops at the door again, hoping this whole conversation wasn’t a giant misstep. “Look, it’s your choice. I’m _—_ I’m looking out for you, that’s all. You can decide what to do with the information.”

“Why?”

“Why look out for you?” Arish asks. Dylan doesn’t answer. “I consider you my friend. I can’t undo or fix anything the FBC is already done, but I can try and help change it.” Dylan sneers.

“The Bureau won’t change. Everything the Bureau does is selfish. Secret. They don’t care.” His fingers twitch at his sides, and Arish can practically feel the energy and anger radiating off him. Dylan’s eyes roam, unfocused. “Casper never cared. He pretended the whole time until I wasn’t interesting to him anymore.” 

_Is he even talking to me anymore?_ Arish can’t decide if his next question is a bad idea, so he says it before he overthinks it and loses his chance.

“What about Jesse?”

Dylan’s expression softens as he grows very still.

“...Jesse is different.” His headache begins to creep back in.

“She’s director, isn’t she?” Arish questions. Dylan stands there, silent. “You should really talk to her before any of those idiots get to her.”

“Are we going somewhere or not?”

Okay. Enough pushing his luck with that. Things are already way more tense than Arish had ever wanted, considering his original reason for heading to the Quarry was just to try and get Dylan out of his room and help him adjust some. He’s afraid he might’ve done more harm than good to their hesitant friendship, but neither of them is injured or shouting, so that’s good in his book. He’s really not sure where he’s at in Dylan’s view. Or if anyone knows where they sit in Dylan’s view. Except for the people he hates. That’s always abundantly clear. So for now… he’ll just keep being a friend for him. If he wants it.

Arish gestures to the door in front of him.

“You wanna do the honors?” He swears he can see Dylan roll his eyes as he pushes the final door open and steps out into the Quarry. The cynicism melts near-instantly as he takes in the sprawling sky above him, mouth dropping open with a half whispered _whoa._

“Right?” Arish says, smiling up at the foreign sky. Dylan swallows back the lump in his throat and laughs in disbelief, breathing in the air. Breathing it deep, in gulps, like it’s precious. He smiles in spite of himself _—_ a real smile, free of any malice, and lets the starry sky fill his eyes.

* * *

By the time Dylan finally wanders back past his room, the rangers are back. They seem startled to see him out of his room, and he almost laughs.

Almost.

His head is still swimming with stars. He would’ve spent the whole day there if he could, but Arish had to leave, and getting caught there with no easy excuse would result in consequences he doesn’t want to bother with. Besides, he has something to take care of. His headache is almost a reminder to get to the piles and copies of paperwork.

Ever since they let him wander the House, he’d been exploring whatever he felt the whim for. Eventually he found one of Darling’s satellite offices, plastered in incomprehensible notes and theories and redacted files. He would’ve ignored it all _—_ maybe trashed a wall or two _—_ until his eye caught the word _Hedron_. Something pushed him forward, a sense of urgency drilling into his brain. He needed that paper. To burn it. Keep it. Hide it. Understand it himself. Something.

He has a deliberate stash of FBC files now.

Some pages on Hedron or the Hiss he conveniently “lost” and hoped they had no extra copies. Others he poured over in the dark, scanning for anything he can use, anything he needs to be aware of. Anything about the slide projector. 

He doesn’t really know why. He’s just compelled. He needs to know. And the Bureau needs to forget.

But now he knows they’re on to him. He knew it wouldn’t be long _—_ he just hoped it would be longer, so he could have more of a plan. More of an excuse. 

At least Arish seems to be on his side.

For now.

Dylan makes his way to the lab he found tucked away, already made a confusing mess by Darling, and not one of the ones Pope’s team had picked through yet. Not an ideal place to hide papers he wants to keep to himself, but the ideal place to avoid suspicion if they are found. A temporary solution. He needs to make a move now _—_ he can’t let them have Darling’s research. Read it, memorize it, then shred it, burn it _—_ anything. 

The lab is still abandoned as ever, but someone’s placed a keycard reader on it.

Hm.

Dylan pulls the one he quietly pocketed a few days ago out and heads inside to the dark and empty lab. The papers are still where he left them _—_ shoved beneath a desk in a mess of unrelated dead letters and uninteresting meeting minutes. He stands and thumbs through them, trying to decide the best way to get rid of them without notice or suspicion.

He hears the _click_ of the door opening and feels his stomach pitch, knowing full well he’s been caught. Dylan turns around in bold defiance, ready to look whoever it is in the eye. He meets the gaze of some ranger he doesn’t recognize, eyes just as filled with disgust. _I know about you,_ they both think.

“I knew letting you out was a mistake.”

Dylan’s fists clench at his sides. The ranger subtlety shifts his gun at his side to say _don’t try anything._

So this is how it’s going to be.

Neither says a word until the ranger takes another step inside, door swinging shut behind him.

“I got my hands on some of those files about you and what you did. I knew those people.”

“How sad,” Dylan bites back.

“Darling was right to lock you up,” the ranger starts crossing the room now, and Dylan desperately weighs his options and outcomes. “Could’ve saved us a lot more trouble if Trench made the harder call.”

_Oh._

The gloves are off now.

“Darling’s _dead_ now. Just like your fr _—_ ” The ranger closes the distance before Dylan can react, grabbing the neckline of his sweater and pinning him against the desk behind him. Dylan wasn’t expecting him to take the bait. Not that fast. He grins despite the weight on his chest and pissed off ranger looming over him. The bitterness settles in his stomach as the grin slides off his face.

_Nothing has changed._

He’s not free. They’ve just made his cage bigger and pander to him. Like he’s stupid, like it’s an overnight fix that their kindness somehow changes.

“You’ve got everyone else fooled," the ranger threatens, keeping him pinned. "Not me.” Dylan clocks the ranger reaching for his gun out of the corner of his eye and instinctively shoves him back, sending him flying into the wall across from them. Dylan scrambles to his feet, panic setting in, realizing fully what he’s done, knowing nothing good can come out of it. Who in the Bureau would ever believe his plea of self defense? Part of his brain tells him to just commit _—_ he’s in the hole, now dig it deep and take others down with him. Raze the FBC. Let it all out. Tear it down from the foundation. 

He can hear the sound of people running down the hall and watches as the ranger struggles to pull himself back up to his feet. 

Now or never. This is it. 

Commit or back down.

Two more rangers come through the door, and Dylan readies himself.

Arish appears behind them, and Dylan falters.

Something in him wins. His headache rages. 

He takes a step back and slowly raises his hands in surrender.

Arish gets there just seconds after the other rangers, catching himself in the doorframe. He sees Dylan’s eyes flick to the ground as he holds his hands up and sees McBride stumbling to his feet, the wall behind him dented. He’s barely opened his mouth before the rangers in front of him are on top of Dylan. 

He didn’t know that any of them carried sedatives still. Before he can do anything, say anything, _think,_ Dylan is out cold.

_Damn it._

McBride, ragged, looks to Arish, who glares right back.

A few doctors push past Arish. Jesse follows suit. Everyone is talking over each other. More staff trickle to the door, peering in.

Jesse is raising her voice to speak over McBride. Doctors are shoving them both away.

Arish hangs his head. 

_Damn it, damn it, damn it._


	13. A House Divided

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, just a heads up that very briefly in this chapter, as well as in future chapters, I'm going to gently touch on a few topics around depression and Dylan's complicated feelings with ...a lot of things.  
> Nothing content wise is going to be some form of topic hasn't already been touched on thematically in game, and I won't be delving into it deep at all, but I still want to include this disclaimer in case it's something you'd rather not read. I'll put the specifics in the end-notes for those who want to check <3 I'm also going to bump the fic rating up to M, just in case.

**< Keep your/our House > **

**< Obedient/in line/under control. >**

**< The brother is here. >**

**< We did not forget/forgive. >**

Dylan is sick of being asleep. Of the exhaustion seeping into his bones.

Groggy, slipping back and forth on the edge of consciousness, he tries to roll over in his bed and finds his wrists bound. Dylan cracks his eyes open in the dim light. A medic is standing over him, loosing his cuffs. _Prisoner_.

“He should’ve just killed me,” Dylan mumbles, drifting back off. 

Jesse is sick of Dylan being a target.

She’s sick of meetings and unknowns and the Board chastising her like she just got an F on her report card. Bearing down on her, watching her every move. Like she’s disappointed them somehow, even while she’s saved the FBC, the Oldest House, _and_ purged the Hiss from the Board as well as her brother. Twice. For both of them.

Mostly. Mostly purged it from her brother.

The anxiety that ebbs and flows in her thoughts, ever present, telling her _you are not cut out for this. You fail people. You do not know how to do this_. _You’re tricking these people into trusting you._

She just wants her brother back and the lockdown lifted. 

Polaris ebbs and flows in her vision, a direct opposition against her anxiety, pressing it, pushing it back. _Look how far you’ve come. Look at all you’ve done. You keep growing._

Jesse takes a deep breath and remembers Emily and Arish both sat next to her.

At least she’s not alone.

Her first ever encounter with employee discipline is laid out in front of her now. Three rangers are sitting across the table, and Dylan is the main topic of discussion. _Aren't there rules about personal involvement or something? I guess this would count as extenuating circumstances._

It’s taking every ounce of focus she has not to snip back at the rangers or drop her head onto the table in frustration. Instead she bounces both legs under the table to at least burn off the nervous energy _somewhere._

“He attacked me, Arish,” McBride continues, recounting his version of events. “You saw it.”

“No, I didn’t, actually,” Arish answers, arms folded across his chest.

“He slammed me into a wall! It left a _crater_ in the lab _—_ ”

“Nobody else saw it happen, there must’ve been a reason _—_ ”

“He instigated _—_ ”

“He _surrendered—_ ”

The other two rangers chime in, and now everyone is talking over each other, having at least 4 different conversations.

“Alright,” Jesse starts, cutting through the noise and nearly startling herself, not expecting her own volume. “Alright. Look… you can all go over the specifics as this goes on. That’s not why we’re all here. We’ve got to talk about the fact that you sedated Dylan.”

Emily chimes in with the specifics, citing the papers and documents that were set in place around this. Jesse has no idea how Emily can remember all these things and say them with such practiced ease, but she’s thankful.

Emily slides a file across the table to McBride with a polite smile, and he meets it stony-faced.

“I know what it says. I’ve read it. I don’t see how it relates to me _—_ I didn’t engage with Faden. And any actions that were taken were justified for safety _—_ ”

Arish can’t restrain himself anymore. 

“Oh _please_ , McBride _—_ ”

“He’s got you in his pocket, Arish, we all know that. He has all of you!” McBride gestures across the table, and the rangers next to him shift in murmured agreement. “The Board has all of you. I’m not convinced they aren’t trying to get rid of us. Hell, maybe the hiss DID get to them.”

Jesse’s face twists in genuine confusion. 

“What…” she struggles for the words to follow her question. “ _What_ are you talking about?”

“Everyone sees it. We go on directoral lockdown and lose every one of our previous generation in leadership? And the Board just appoints some nobody who just wanders in and happens to be magically immune to the problem? Trench ‘shoots himself’,” McBride punctuates his sarcasm with air quotes. “Darling and Marshall both vanish, Tomassi and Salvador are both dead, we have one of the worst Panopticon breaches I’ve ever heard of, and the most dangerous escapee just _happens_ to be our new Director’s brother? And now none of us can leave, and we’re just supposed to trust everything you say.” 

He levels his gaze at Jesse. The tension-filled air settles its weight on her shoulders.

Where can Jesse even start with that? _I trust the Board about as much as you? I didn’t ask for this job either? Let me show you my resume? Ask Ahti if you want references?_ Why can’t this just be another crisis where _point gun and shoot at Hartman/Hiss/the Clog_ is the answer? 

McBride continues without her.

“And now after years of safe containment P6 just gets a pass because you say so? While he’s still infected with the Hiss?”

“ _Dylan_ was a prisoner for 17 years in the FBC,” Jesse responds instantly, anger bubbling just under her words. Emily nudges closer to her, as if to say _I know. I'm sorry. Please don't lash out._

“ _Dylan_ ,” McBride says his name with a dangerous amount of venom. “In case you forgot, nearly killed all of us because of the Hiss.”

“The Hiss is what nearly killed all of us,” Emily interjects. “It nearly killed him.”

“He’s been stealing documents, you know that, right?” McBride addresses Jesse directly. “Pope knows that. I told Arish too, he wrote me off. Do you guys not care? That’s just not important anymore?”

Jesse turns to the others in surprise. She never knew about this. Emily holds out her hand to signal for a pause and quickly corrects him.

“I had gotten an investigation request into the matter from some staff _—_ we didn’t have any proof yet and there was no official investigation completed.”

McBride huffs in response.

“I found him going through his pile of documents. Every single one of them is on Hedron or the Hiss. He’s trying to keep us from leaving, or trying to ruin Hedron, I don’t know, whatever he’s got going on in that head of his. He attacked me because he knew he was caught, and it stopped because he got sedated in time. He’s dangerous to all of us and you’re just letting him take the Bureau down with him.”

“He’s not supposed to get sedated!” Jesse responds, finding her words with sudden authority. Everyone at the table straightens a little in surprise. “You can’t just run around doing that. You’re saying all these things about concerns and issues, but _none_ of it was brought to me.” 

The other two rangers dip their heads in realization _—_ agreement, sheepishness, apology.

“You want to just stay mad and assume instead of trying to ask me about it?” Jesse continues, letting her frustration come through. “How would any of this have gotten fixed if you just kept it a secret instead of talking to me? I know I’m new here, and this is a completely new time for the Bureau, but I’m trying to keep up with it all just as much as you. I _want_ to be here, and I want to know what you guys are worried about. No more office politics, no more not knowing what other branches of the Bureau are doing. Just... come talk to me.” 

Jesse slowly relaxes, hoping that some of it is getting through to them, but nonetheless already feeling better. Polaris pulses in her view in reassurance and affirmation. Jesse continues.

“We’ll work around whatever confidentiality issues there are. So we can actually work toward a solution and not end up in this entire mess. All of us want to go home and lift the lockdown. Staging a coup won’t make it go any faster. We have to work together.”

She leans back in her chair, surprising herself just a little bit with how she asserted herself. No one makes any attempt to speak up, so she lets it settle, collecting herself and her thoughts. 

Emily finally breaks the silence, breaking down the next steps with her usual poise and jargon. The rangers all face a reprimand of some degree, to be fully brought about by their superior officer, whoever that falls to, and if they have any further questions they can come to any of the three of them (though Jesse knows Emily understands the actual regulations the best). There will be further discussion about specifics, but not at this time. 

Emily, wisely, and to Arish’s relief, dismisses the three before they can ask questions or argue any further. When the door finally shuts, the FBC’s newest leadership is left looking at each other with worry in their eyes. They all know the next subject they need to broach.

“I know,” Jesse says, looking between the two. “We need to talk about Dylan.”

“We need to talk about the documents. And our staff,” Emily adds.

“We need to talk _to_ our staff,” Arish stresses. Jesse finally lets her forehead hit the table and groans.

“We’ve got a lot to get through.”

* * *

In his new dream, Dylan is no longer alone.

His dream is how he wants it _—_ he’s outside, under a night sky. No HRA in sight, no Bureau, no headache, no earworms _humming in a dream, baby, baby, baby—_ No. He squashes it before it can continue. 

No earworms.

He’s outside in a forest somewhere, where the stars in the sky are like a domed cathedral ceiling, painted and beautiful and awe-inspiring. The air is fresh, and new, and _right._

Jesse is there too. His sister. His family. They’re together and safe, traveling the world like she always wanted. He has the freedom to do whatever he wants. It all feels so right.

He watches the fire contentedly, the coals glowing hot against the deep, dark night.

_Grow brighter._

It all feels so right.

And it all burns away so quickly.

He watches as the flames jump further up, licking up toward the domed sky, lighting it all on fire until it melts _—_ a horrid, nightmarish red that bubbles and bleeds and spreads. Dylan tries to stop it, to tell it to stop. He looks to Jesse for help, but she’s gone. _She’s at the Bureau_ , Dylan thinks. _She left me_.

 _They all leave you_ , something says in Dylan’s head. _They don’t want you to have this. They blame you for everything, attack you. Strip you of your powers._ There’s a weight on Dylan’s chest. It feels like an HRA. It feels like anger. It feels like grief. 

He’s in a lab, and rangers are surrounding him.

_We cannot be separated. They’ve all left you. Together, we can be stronger. Powerful._

Dylan tries to shut his eyes, but the dream doesn’t obey. The rangers are readying to attack him.

_Jesse. Jesse wouldn’t leave me. Jesse wants to help me. She knows the truth._

Jesse appears in the doorway, at the threshold. 

_Abandoned._

_A puppet of the FBC._

_Like Darling._

_Like Hedron._

The rangers ready their weapons.

 _Let me prove it,_ Dylan thinks frantically. _Let her prove it. She wouldn’t do this. She found me_.

The rangers pause.

 _See which dream she makes come true_.

Dylan wakes before they fire.

_Test your ultimatum. See who tells the truth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [content disclaimer: a character wishes they would have died]


	14. Connect-the-Dots Conjecture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Langston would shine lights on the plants.
> 
> Because Jesse asked him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (no content warning this chapter!)

Crossing a once-broken firebreak during a directorial lockdown into a forbidden sector is not high on Langston’s list of “things he wants to do at work”. But the plants need light! Apparently. And Jesse recommended the job to him (though it kind of felt more like an order painted as a suggestion) and incentivized him by pointing out his copy of Hartman’s book should still be over there. He didn’t bother to ask how on earth she knew about the book and instead considered the amount of things he could catalogue both for the Bureau and himself. Only rangers and Jesse had been to the section since What-Had-Been-Hartman was cleared out, so he had the prime chance to get to any items he wanted to see (or collect, like his poetry) before anyone else moved it or catalogued it.

And he would shine lights on the plants.

Because Jesse asked him to.

He did sort of like the plants. Would be a real bummer if they died. Apparently Ahti had been caring for them before Jesse got there, and he wasn’t about to spend brain power on wondering _how_ the ever-present janitor got to the abandoned sector.

Langston sighs and holds his breath as he crosses the rickety, partially-repaired firebreak. It might be all metal and wood and safety signs, but at least it’s up to _some_ safety standards. He steps forward as the firebreak door begins to lift, and pushes his way into the shadowy forgotten offices to find what Bureau paraphernalia awaits him.

* * *

It’s not a conversation either of them wants to have, but picking through the scattered office and rubble, it can’t be avoided anymore.

Dylan has destroyed a lot of Darling and Emily’s research. 

Jesse points out it could still be hidden somewhere. She’s checking drawers and under desks and all the papers plastered on the wall. Maybe the papers aren’t even hidden or taken _—_ Darling’s labs were all a mess. They could just be misplaced, right?

Emily winces and reminds her that Dylan was caught in the act, and she _knows_ some of her papers have vanished entirely from other labs. She’s quick to add that it makes sense, what Dylan’s doing _—_ considering everything he's gone through. _That the FBC put him through._

“It could even be a side effect of the Hiss infection,” Emily offers and brightens _—_ eager to share possible theories _—_ but falters when she sees Jesse’s face and remembers the implications of it all. “Regardless, I _—_ Jesse… what Dylan did is baseline suspicious if not outright dangerous when it comes to the spread of the Hiss, especially in his condition. If we lose some of our progress in understanding the Hiss and Hedron we could be in lockdown for much, much longer. What Dylan did, it can’t…” Emily trails off. 

There’s no good word for it.

“Go unpunished?” Jesse offers quietly, staring blankly into a drawer.

Emily hates that her silence is confirmation. She has to find something to say. Anything. 

“No. Just… we’ve got to talk to him. Understand what he’s doing and why.” She scoops up another stack of papers and places them neatly in a box.

“I’ve been trying to do that. Understand how he’s feeling. Put myself in his shoes. I guess on one hand I’m one of the only people that can. Not just because he’s my brother, but…”

“You both went through the Ordinary AWE together.” Emily’s heart aches thinking about it all, everything that both siblings had gone through. Jesse nods slowly.

“But after that I… Emily, I heard some of the recordings. Saw the files. And what little Dylan has told me… I _—_ I don’t know. I’d be angry, too. Angry’s not even the right word. I…” Jesse pushes the drawer shut suddenly, slamming it much louder than she meant to. “I’m glad things are changing here, but sometimes I wish we had more than hotline calls and classified documents to go off of. To try and get a better picture of what really happened instead of just redacted lines and people trying to remember what they _think_ happened.”

“How do you mean?”

Jesse shrugs. Looking around, she gestures at all the walls and whiteboards and half-coherent notes.

“I never met Darling. I feel like I did, but I haven’t. I can’t make sense of a lot of the weirder stuff he was looking at. And I’m glad I have you there to help me, please don’t get me wrong,” she adds quickly, expression softening as she apologetically holds her hand out toward Emily. She shakes her head and smiles.

“No, I know what you mean. I _—_ I’m still trying to come to terms with it all myself. Everything Darling did _—_ the Prime Candidate program, Hedron, things he restricted my access from _—_ I wish I could know why. I _—_ ” her eyes settle on her shoes. “I wish I could know why.”

“Can we ever really know?” Jesse asks, pressing her back against the wall and sliding down to the floor. “Why Darling did any of what he did? How he felt, if he understood more than us? Or Trench, even. And the Hiss…”

Emily purses her lips. 

“A lot of science and what we do here is just repeated testing _—_ seeing if the data adds up and holds true to the hypothesis. We can theorize, but first hand information is vital.”

The silence settles again, and neither moves _—_ Jesse still pressed up against the wall, knees arched, and Emily half-sitting on a desk.

“Have you talked about it?” she asks, looking up at Jesse. “You and Dylan. Everything that happened?”

Jesse stares past the floor.

“Not really. I don’t want to push him. And I think… I think he might be upset with me.”

“You?” Emily asks, genuinely surprised. “You’re the only person he seems to fully trust.”

“That’s why I don’t want to bring up anything that ends up ruining that. I think he’s upset that I’m Director now. And Polaris is already a sensitive subject.”

“Polaris? Do you think that’s just the Hiss influence, or is that _—_ ”

“No. I mean, maybe, but _—_ it’s just. It’s hard to explain. And I haven’t asked him. So I don’t really know.”

The silence settles around them, comfortable, but still filled with questions Jesse doesn’t dare disturb.

Emily’s job is to ask the unaskable. Question the unquestionable. Look at every angle, even when nobody wants to. When Jesse doesn’t want to.

For once, she even finds it hard to ask herself.

* * *

Investigations is MUCH more unsettling in person than it is on the security cameras. Even knowing full well that Hartman is gone, he can’t help but feel on edge, clutching the high-powered light in his hands. Shadows are already creepy enough _—_ he doesn’t need to feel like they’re seeping into his skin. Especially seeing the offices so untouched. It’s like a graveyard shift (if the FBC had any, that is) that only he came in to work. _Why do they have to call them graveyard shifts? Why did I think about that?_

He did not remember to ask Jesse where any of the plants were.

He hoofs it up the steps to the higher offices, overlooking the desks and defunct map of the states stretching across the opposite wall. Barely any light filters into the stairwell.

Maybe this was not a job he should’ve taken so eagerly.

_Okay, stay focused. Plants, book, get out. Plants and book and get out. Plants and book. Plants and—_

Langston sweeps the light over a desk as he enters and comes to a stop, noticing the file with a red _classified_ stamped across the front.

_...files that are very important and should maybe be refiled, plants, book, get out._

He flips the folder open and scans the first document paper-clipped in the stack. It’s a letter, from Trench to Kirklund. About _—_ is this about Hartman? Or the Shade? It feels like maybe he shouldn’t read this, even though both parties are long gone, it’s just so scathing. _Blatant attempts to lay incompetence on my doorstep?_

“Jeez,” Langston remarks to the shadows around him. He remembers the drama around Investigations closing, but didn’t know Trench was _that_ livid about it. Or that there was apparently an internal investigation into Trench, according to this letter. Maybe they caught on to the fact that he got more aggressive after the Hiss _—_

Oh.

_Oh._

“‘You are a worm,’” Langston reads aloud, trying to reassure himself what he’s reading is real. “‘Everything I’ve done has been for the benefit of the Bureau. The Prime Candidate Program only failed because of Darling’ _—_ hm. ‘You are both failures… plotting against me. You are traitors, but the truth will emerge out of you’ _—_ oh _—_ I _—_ that’s _—_ ”

Langston fumbles over his own words, scrambling to remember the Hiss incantation, to compare what he’s just read, trying to find the date on this letter. The implications of it all _—_

He remembers more of the Incantation now, and shudders.

_You are home._

_You remind us of home._

* * *

“We’ve never observed the Hiss before the lockdown,” Emily starts slowly. “Except for Trench, of course, but we weren’t observing him like we are Dylan. We just know in retrospect that it affected his emotions. It could be that his status as a parautilitarian protected him, or… maybe it’s just because he hadn’t let the whole of the Hiss into the FBC yet.”

Jesse bounces her leg restlessly, still staring at the ground.

“I really hope this isn’t true, Jesse. I...” Emily can’t find her words for once. **“** We need to look into the possibility that the Hiss could have changed Dylan, in some way. Or still is changing him, or even is still influencing him _—_ sharing his body, for layman’s terms.” 

“I know,” Jesse admits quietly. “I _know_ he’s still in there, I know he is. Everything he and I have talked about… Dylan _is_ in there. But…”

_Where do his emotions end and the Hiss begin? Is that even a fair question? I shouldn’t speculate too much without actually talking to him._

Polaris pulses in reassurance, sending a wave of paradoxical calm thorough Jesse despite her underlying anxiety.

Jesse has to do something with all the extra energy in her besides bouncing her legs, so she hauls herself up and sets back to rooting through drawers of files. Emily crosses her arms under her HRA and starts to pace, digging through all the info she’s been rolling around her head.

“You know, Dylan and Trench being our only examples of someone not being corrupted by the Hiss near-instantly _could_ be connected to their status as parautilitarians. Dylan with the added… let’s say ‘immune system’ of having Polaris while already being powerful, like you are. It could be that’s why you’re able to purge the Hiss from him as well. Or maybe it’s because you two are related. Or something else, I suppose.”

“But Dylan told me he let the Hiss push Polaris out,” Jesse pulls another drawer open with her foot. “That’s why they infected him, but not me. Well. Except for _—_ you know. When they did.”

“Exactly!” Emily is practically beaming now despite the subject matter, following the rabbit trail deeper, sussing out more explanations that could fit. “You also experienced Hiss corruption and _rejected_ it. You overpowered it. _And_ you saved the rest of the Bureau from corruption when Hedron… disappeared, briefly.”

“Are you saying Dylan is… letting the Hiss stay? Letting it corrupt him?”

“Maybe not letting. If the Hiss truly is parasitic in nature _—_ and this is all conjecture _—_ it could be trying to make him a willing or complacent host _—_ it may even be symbiotic, trying to convince Dylan he needs the Hiss.”

“And you think _—_ you think it’s changing how Dylan behaves?”

“Maybe. Again, I don’t know _—_ we need to talk to him. _Really_ talk to him. It could be that the Hiss is just preying on things he wants. Maybe the reason we see other Hiss corrupted individuals wielding paranatural powers is because of the Hiss’ hold on Dylan. That would explain a lot, especially considering the Hiss’ door into our world is closed. If he’s its…” her hands spin in front of her, as if to pull the words from the air. “If he’s its host, its strong connection, it wouldn’t want to relinquish someone so powerful so easily, but to stay anchored here.”

Okay.

_That’s a lot to even think about. How can I just talk about it?_

Polaris shimmers.

“Okay. And we _—_ I’m just supposed to ask him?” Jesse’s hands try to find purchase in her pockets. “‘Hey, Dylan, I know you’re full of wrath toward everyone of the place I’m now the Director of, but do you think you could tell me if the resonance inside of you is making you do these questionable things, or is it just you?’”

“I wish I knew. I’ve never been the greatest with words.”

Jesse shoots her an incredulous look. Emily concedes. 

“Okay, I’ve never been great with words outside my field of study.”

“I’m beginning to think your field of study is ‘everything’. I made you Head of Research for a reason though.” They both crack a smile and laugh.

“Thank you, again, Jesse. It _—_ the role _—_ I _—_ thank you. I just hope I live up to expectations.”

“Come on, Emily, I know you’ll do great. I get it though. Kinda feel the same way about the Board’s decision to make me director.” Jesse tucks a loose strand from her ponytail back behind her ear. “It’s not that I’m not confident, it’s just. I can see where McBride and his guys are coming from. I love it here but. There’s going to be a big learning curve and adjustment.”

Emily looks up at the director, fishing for the right words, and decides to echo her.

“I know you’ll do great, Jesse.”

* * *

The plants and book are long-forgotten now. Langston has planted himself in an empty desk chair, sorting through his new collection of FBC papers, organizing them, trying to take them all in. He can’t believe these were here. He can’t believe they were here, forgotten, for so _long_. Internal investigations, flaming accusations, human rights violations, the Ash Act…

_Not only is this in breach of the Ash Act, but it flies in the face of basic human—_

“Oh good Lord.”

* * *

“I really am overthinking this, huh?” Jesse says, shoving another neatly-packed banker box up against the wall. Emily lifts one up to finish one of the towers of them, now packed after their hours of tidying the room together. “Talking to Dylan, I mean. I feel like I know him better than I know anyone else, but I don’t know where to start. What happens if I say the wrong thing? Or I don’t say the right thing?” Emily heads toward the door, but slows to a stop, waiting for Jesse.

“He might surprise you. I think he feels the same connection to you, after all this time. You both are family, and your experiences are so unique to you,” Emily offers, an unsure smile on her face, hoping it's some kind of reassurance. She really has no answer, no advice, no baseline of comparison. But she wants to help however she can.

“I’ve been looking for him my whole life and I am so, so terrified to lose him again.” Jesse reaches the lab door and freezes when her hand touches the handle, turning to look at Emily again. “What do I do when the lockdown _does_ lift? He’s _—_ _seventeen years_ of being isolated and observed. What if he still can’t leave right away? What are we even going to do when we can leave? Will he want to work with me? Work somewhere else? Where do we go? I don’t have a home. He doesn’t have a home.”

“The Bureau can fund both of you,” Emily points out. “You do work for us, you know.” Jesse laughs.

“Right. I keep forgetting about that.”

“You’re not your brother’s keeper. You can’t control everything to make it perfect for him. _But_ you love your brother. You’re doing everything you can for him. You can’t control everything _—_ you do what you can within your ability for him.”

“And I want to look out for him. I _—_ I couldn’t before. I can now. We _—_ it’s just us. He’s my little brother. And I… what do we do? Boot him out into a world he hasn’t seen since 2002 and tell him good luck? What do we do?”

“One step at a time. Just like all of us,” Emily puts a hand on Jesse’s shoulder to slow her down. “But we’ve got to lift the lockdown first. And you both can talk about it.”

“Right. I’m speculating without him again. I should go talk to him now. If he’s up.”

“Good plan,” Emily smiles.

Jesse pushes the lab door open, and they both part their respective ways into the halls of the Oldest House.

* * *

Arish is bent over a map in Central Executive, penciling in Hiss sightings and House shifts, when he hears someone call his name from the elevator.

“Arish!” Langston shouts, rushing down the steps to get to him, still talking as he closes the distance. “Great! Okay, I’m glad you’re here, wasn’t sure if I’d have to go all the way to the NSC sector.”

Arish doesn’t usually bump into Langston outside of the Panopticon, but the fact that Langston’s demeanor only seems urgent and not overtly panicked puts his suspicions a bit more at ease.

“Langston. Something wrong, or…?”

“No, I just found some files that have been misplaced for a _long_ time, and after looking them over I realized these should _really_ go to Jesse. And. Dylan, actually. In fact I think maybe they should just be shown to Dylan right away, but we have to ask Jesse permission as Director, of course, though since they’re mostly all about him I don’t see how confidentiality _—_ ”

“Whoa, okay, slow down,” Arish holds his hands out, trying to keep up with whatever Langston is rambling about. “You found lost files? Like the files from…?”

“No. No! No, sorry, these are from Investigations.”

“Why the hell were you at Investigations?”

“Jesse needed me to shine lights on the plants. Oh, shoot! My book. I forgot my book."

_What?_

“And there were missing documents in the planters…?”

“No, it _—_ look, it’s a long story, but these are really important.” Langston holds the files out, pinching it shut to keep the loose papers from fluttering to his feet. Arish tilts his head in confusion, but takes them anyway. Langston senses his question and puts his hands up in front of him.

“I know. ‘C’mon, Langston, if it’s important and you found it, why not give it to the Director yourself!’ I just _—_ I think this is something you should do. Run the idea of giving them to Dylan by her, or give them to him first.” Langston purses his lips together, hesitating.

Arish is still squinting at him in confusion.

“I also just don’t think I want to be there when Dylan reads them," Langston adds.

 _Aha,_ Arish thinks.

"They’re not bad! Just. Probably a lot to take in. They were for me, and they don’t have a thing to do with me at all, so you know. Doesn’t need me handing him that. You guys are kinda close I guess. Passing stuff like that on is uh. Kinda above my pay grade. And me overseeing the Panopticon when Dylan was, uh,” Langston clears his throat. "But. There you go." 

Langston laughs awkwardly, finally giving time for Arish to process everything that came out of his mouth. He nods slowly, tucking the files under his arm.

“You got it. I’ll pass it on to them. Am I cool to look at these, or…?”

“Yeah! Yeah, go for it.”

Langston nods, awkwardly looking for a way to say goodbye before giving up. He turns to leave **,** then spins on his heel suddenly, shoes squeaking loudly on the tile.

“One more thing, though actually you probably already knew, but _—_ there’s been a lot more Hiss activity. I thought I was fine heading out there without a bigger ranger presence, but the Hiss corrupted really seem to be on the move. They’re not really _doing_ anything, just. Going. Somewhere.” 

Arish tosses the folder onto the table and scoops his pencil back up.

“Where at? Maintenance?”

“No, no. It looked like they were headed to a turntable maybe. They weren’t really interested in me, thank God. They just… kept heading onward. Marching on.” Langston flips through the maps with Arish, pointing out a few places.

“Weird,” Arish finally says, folding his arms across his chest and taking in the maps.

“Yeah. Well. The Panopticon awaits! Best of luck out here.”

“Right. See ya, Langston,” he replies, and the man vanishes into the elevator as it leaves with a _ding._

* * *

  
  


Wells is headed toward his bunk after his shift when he catches Jesse in the halls. She almost misses him _—_ focused on the carpet, lost in thought. He calls her name twice before her head snaps up and recognition crosses her face.

“Hey, sorry. Wells, right?”

“Yes ma’am. Are you headed to your brother’s room right now?” Jesse shifts on her feet, bracing for a complaint or report against Dylan.

“I am, actually.”

“I just finished a shift guarding his room. It might not be my place to say, but I’m really concerned about him. I don’t know how well he’s doing,” Wells says, voice low. Jesse’s expression softens. _That’s a change. A really refreshing one._

“What do you mean?”

“Everything the man’s been through _—_ and I don’t even know it all. I overheard him while I was in his room to check on him. I think the incident in the lab rattled him a lot. Forgive me if I’m overstepping in this, but I think you should talk to him, if you weren’t already planning on it.”

Jesse smiles, sadly, but genuinely _—_ hopeful, thankful. Affirmed.

“I was just headed to talk to him, actually. Is he in his room?”

“Might be. He was asleep when I left my guard shift.”

“Thanks, Wells. Really.” The ranger shakes his head.

“Thank you ma’am. Have a good one.”

Two more rangers nod their greeting when she reaches his door. She nods back, nudging the door open slowly, already rehearsing everything and anything she might say. Her eyes land on an empty cot. She glances around the dim room, eyebrows knit together, words quickly forgotten. She leans back out the door.

“Did he leave?”

“Ma’am?”

“Dylan. He’s not in there.”

“He left at guard change. Went that way,” the ranger gestures down the hall with the butt of her gun. “Dunno where he went. Didn’t ask.”

Jesse feels equal parts relieved she doesn’t have to have the conversation now and anxious she has to have it later.

“Right. Thanks. I’m going to see if I can find him.” She looks down the hallway stretching out before her.

_Where are you headed, Dylan?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cannot believe this chapter used to be combined with the next one. what a beast of a word count this go round sdkjfhskdjhfjk  
> next chapter is outlined and coming as soon as homework lets me!


	15. You Want This to be True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (No content warning this chapter)

Jesse checks all his usual haunts first. Central Research. Dead Letters. The planters near the Synchronicity lab. The stickynote-infested offices in Executive.

No sign of Dylan.

She turns over her thoughts again and again as she searches. Trying to figure out what to say to Dylan and how to say it.

She had thought about it for 17 years and never found a good start. And now she had other factors to consider. The Bureau. The Hiss. Directorship.

The lost research could set back the lockdown significantly.

The rangers’ actions could have shaken Dylan’s fragile trust.

Dylan was a prisoner here for most of his life.

It makes Jesse burn with bitter _what-ifs_. What if it had been different? What if we had escaped Ordinary together? What if I had gotten here sooner? What if Trench and Darling had done something different?

Polaris shifts behind Jesse’s eyes.

 _I know,_ she thinks. _I’m assuming things without talking to him. Again. And none of this is helpful really._ The door to Arish’s office shuts behind her as she steps out. (It was a long shot, but worth a check anyway).

It’s hard. Enjoying this place. Being Director, and loving it. The paranatural aspects, the Bureau’s mission, her co-workers, her friends. Her brother.

But the Bureau almost killed him.

_How can I reconcile this? What does he even think?_

Jesse stands in the hall, trying to pick a direction to head.

_We can make it right. Make sure it never happens again. Right?_

Polaris’ fractals shine at the end of the hall.

 _Do you know where he went?_ Jesse asks. Polaris spins, and Jesse feels the pull, the push, the need to go to the Director’s office. _Her_ office. She knows Dylan’s there. Like how she knew Dylan would be here when she stood outside the Oldest House. Craning her neck up to stare upward, until the looming cement vanished into the thunder clouds. Something in her pushed her forward. _My brother is in there._

Her feet take her through Executive without a single thought, straight to the double doors, next to the plaque labeled _Jesse Faden, Director of Control_.

Polaris flickers in reassurance, and Jesse feels the calm wash over her nerves.

_My brother is in there._

She pushes the door open to reveal him slouched back in her chair. His eyes flit up to meet her, the dark, exhausted circles under his eyes far too prominent. She tries not to dwell on the thought of how pale he is, how sickly— how he hasn’t seen true sunlight in 17 years.

“Hey,” she starts with a small smile. She hasn’t seen him since the rangers sedated him, and has no idea what to open her conversation with. _Already off to a great start_ , she thinks sarcastically. Polaris pushes back against the anxiety.

To her surprise, Dylan speaks up before she can think of a fitting opener.

“You aren’t in your office much,” he says quietly. Something in Jesse aches— he sounds so small. He sounds like her little brother. “I’ve been waiting for you here.”

Jesse walks toward her desk, trying to find the courage to speak up. All she’s wanted her whole life is to reunite with her brother, to talk to him again. And now she can hardly find a single word to say.

There’s a lot of words to say, actually. She’s scared to say any of them.

She’s almost to her desk when she finds the courage to finally push forward.

They both speak in unison.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Their sentences end sharply in surprise, and Jesse punctuates her’s with an _oh_. Dylan’s eyes roam her desk, staring past it.

“I’m in your chair,” he says plainly. There’s a hint of a question in his tone, almost childish— _are you mad at me?_

“That’s fine,” she half shrugs. “I’m usually somewhere else in the House anyway. Or I’m sleeping on the couch.”

The silence hangs thick between them— all possible conversations hanging in front of them, suspended, untouched. Years of missed moments.

Where can Jesse even start? _Sorry you got sedated? Sorry I wasn’t there sooner to stop them?_

_Sorry I wasn’t here sooner in general?_

_I’ve been looking for you so long and I’m beyond glad you’re here? I love you and I hope you’re okay?_

_I want to help you be okay,_ she thinks.

“Why did you become Director?” Dylan asks, pulling her out of her thoughts, looking up at her, tone slow and careful. It’s not accusatory— it’s genuine, probing for answers; curious, confused. Jesse’s brow knits together.

“I— I don’t know how much of a choice I had in that. I picked up the Service Weapon and…” she vaguely gestures around the room with one hand before letting it fall limp at her side. “I was just… I was looking for you.”

Dylan nods and his shoulders relax. Like he heard the answer he wanted, like everything was going right. He doesn’t push the subject any further, and the silence falls again.

“Are you feeling alright?” Jesse asks, concern clear on her face.

“I hate questions I can’t answer,” he mumbles, eyes falling

“...what do you mean?”

“I don’t know what I mean,” he snaps, looking up to meet her eyes and softening when he hears how bitter he sounds. He didn’t mean to snap. Not at Jesse. “You want to talk to me about the ranger, right? It was self defense. Not like that matters.”

“Of course it matters. I’m pissed. At the rangers, I mean.” Jesse could go on, easily, but bites her tongue before she does. Dylan stops, looking for the words to respond. He wasn’t expecting the Director to side with him.

“Oh,” is all he can manage.

_It’s Jesse. It’s my sister. Of course she understands. We’re okay._

_We’re all okay._

He picks at the edge of his sweater sleeve. He doesn’t want to keep talking— he’s too scared of the answers he might get. But they’ve been good so far. And he’d rather keep going than talk about Darling and his research.

_Don’t let her control the conversation. Test your ultimatum._

He doesn't like the alternative.

“Things are changing around here,” Jesse continues, trying to reassure him. Reassure herself. “They _have_ to, the Bureau can’t just go on like this.”

“Is that why you’re staying Director?” he asks quietly, almost sheepishly. Fear pricks in Jesse’s chest.

“Staying?”

“For now,” Dylan clarifies, shooting her a fearful glance. “Until you can stop. Right? After you’ve fixed it. After they keep the Hedron resonance.”

Jesse hesitates.

The Hiss pulses through Dylan’s thoughts. 

“What?” she finally asks.

_Test your ultimatum._

He stands up slowly, anxiously, pulling his sleeves down over his palms.

“When the lockdown lifts. When the Hiss is gone. Like you want. We can finally leave together. We won’t need Polaris anymore.” No Hiss. No Polaris. No Hedron, no Bureau, no regulations, no rules, no scientists, no tests, no earworms boring into his brain and dreams and thoughts and confusing him. Just him and Jesse. Together. “We— we can travel the world. You always wanted to see the world, right?” 

It makes sense. It makes so much sense.

Jesse’s heart breaks. _It makes so much sense._

Has Dylan been assuming this the whole time?

“What family do we have?” he asks rhetorically. “Who do we have? Where am I going to go without you?” The question bubbles out in nervous laughter, attempting to disguise his underlying anxiety and fear of what her answer will be. 

“Dylan— I…” she trails, catching his eye. He looks at her with so much hope. Like he’s pleading with her. “I guess I can’t know what I’m going to do when the lockdown lifts. I came here looking for you. I knew I would find you this time, I just— I really knew, somehow. I didn’t have a plan beyond that. And you’re _here_ , and I’m here, it’s—” Jesse stops to steel herself from crying. “It’s right.”

 _It is right. It feels so right,_ Dylan thinks.

“But I’m not planning on stopping being the Director. I don’t know if I can stop, actually. But I like it here. Things are going to be different now, the FBC is changing already, and I want you to be here too. We can make it better. But… I can’t just leave it.”

Dylan feels the room push in around him. The walls push closer, the Director’s chair underneath him taunting, the Hiss pressuring closer and closer. The panic thumps in his head along with his heartbeat. _It was supposed to be right._

_She does not care._

Dylan blinks and feels tears streak down his face.

 _No. No, no, no, this is all wrong. It’s wrong, this is wrong. You promised. That it would be right. It’s supposed to be right. She cares. She cares._ He feels himself being pulled backward, further into his own mind.

“ _Through a mirror, inverted is made right._ ” It spills out before he can stop it. Somewhere in his head, he registers Jesse calling his name, pulling him back. He’s behind the Director’s desk. His sister is in front of him, searching his face anxiously, cheeks still wet. He blinks and swallows, reorienting himself.

_She failed you._

“I’m not going to leave you, Dylan. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about— some of it— I want to figure out what we’re going to do when the lockdown lifts.”

“What to do with me? Where to stick the failed Candidate?” he spits. He regrets saying it. He doesn’t. Everything feels like an open wound for Dylan. It makes Jesse ache. She wishes she could stop it for him. Make it right.

“ _Together,_ Dylan. What you want to do. I—”

“I just told you what I want to do.” Something in Dylan’s subconscious nudges him. _The slide projector. Convince her._

 _This first,_ he thinks. _The slide projector is… a backup plan._ His headache pulses in his skull. “ _You’ve always been the new you. You want this to be true,_ ” he lapses, spine arching, fingers twitching, thoughts jumbled.

“ _Dylan_ ,” Jesse says, more of a whisper than she means, a plea. _Please_. His feet touch the ground and his eyes meet hers, sharp, cornered, frantic.

“How can you just _stay_ Director?” he laughs humorlessly in disbelief. “You went to the Prime Candidate program. You saw. They— what the Bureau—” Dylan’s lip curls up in disgust, words dying in his throat. “You saw.”

Jesse falters, floundering for a response. The anxiety creeps through her chest, blooming painfully. _This is not going well._

“You’re a puppet,” he says, throat tight, tears spilling out. “Why can’t you see it, Jesse? It’s what they want. The program. _Polaris. Trench._ Don’t you see it?” he pleads. Jesse purses her lips, shaking her head.

“I don’t— that doesn’t make sense. How does Polaris—”

“ _How?_ She hates me. She only likes you. She never helped me. _Ever_.” His fists clench at his sides and his face twists in sorrow at the memory. “She would show me you. And you never came.”

“I’m here now,” Jesse interjects, desperate, aching. “I never stopped, Dylan. I never stopped looking for you. Never. Polaris took me here, she _helped me,_ that’s how—”

“Why now? After all that time? Why would she do that?” he snaps. Jesse shakes her head.

“I don’t know.” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know.”

“I hate her. She’s just like Casper. That’s why I destroyed it all. You know that right?” he smiles bitterly before it slides off his face. His breath hitches. “They did this to me. They have to pay for it. Trench has to pay for it. But he’s dead. Casper is _dead._ Hedron has to pay. The Bureau has to pay. They let it happen.” ****

“I’m not the Bureau. They’re gone,” Jesse argues, pleads, bargains, trying to smile through the tears, through the anxiety, stepping forward. “There were years where I couldn’t hear her. Where I thought she was taking me to you, but you weren’t there, and I shut her out. All I did was search for you. Everyone told me you were dead but I knew you weren’t. I wondered what you were like.” 

Jesse pauses to gather herself. Dylan can’t look at her, eyes darting around the floor, searching the carpet for answers.

“I can’t even _begin_ to fathom how… what it must’ve been… I’m here now,” she stresses again, watching him, trying to pour all their missing years into her words, to get through to him. “It’s going to be different now. Right. We’ll do it together.”

_She’s lying._

“That doesn’t fix it,” he croaks. “Undo any of it.”

“I know it doesn’t. I’m not _—_ ”

“Do you know what they did to me?”

“I—”

“You _don’t_. You weren’t _here_.” Dylan sniffs, lip curling. He knows it hurts Jesse. But she has to hear it. _The truth._ His eyelids flutter. “ _The egg cracks and the truth will emerge out of you. You are home. You remind us of home._ ” Jesse reaches forward, arm outstretched. 

_Help me,_ she thinks, frantic, and Polaris shimmers, directing her, showing her, opening her eyes. Dylan’s head lolls forward as his feet touch the ground.

“Dylan…?” Jesse asks, swallowing. He won’t meet her gaze. “Where is your HRA?” Dylan’s expression blanks.

“What?” his fingers twitch, hand ghosting up toward his chest. He realizes the weight isn’t there now. “What?” he asks again, quietly. Did he take it off? When? He doesn’t remember that. He tries to jog back in his memory, retrace his steps. It all comes up blank. A dark fog. A red fog. Emptiness. Void. Nothing. His heart pounds. _What? What are you doing to me?_

He lapses instantly.

_“We build you until nothing remains.”_

Jesse swears, lunging forward, heart pounding in her ears.

Before she can reach out, before Polaris can push forward, Dylan is back. He meets her gaze coldly, a lopsided, sharp-edged smirk pointed at her.

“I just want to be free. You want it, too. _”_

“Of course,” Jesse answers.

“Why did you shut down the slide projector?” he levels.

“The Hiss would’ve killed us. All of us.”

“It would have freed us.” Dylan's expression suddenly shifts, voice fluctuating. **“** You’re lying.”

“Dylan, I’m not—”

“N-no— not you,” he says quietly, eyes averted. Jesse’s eyes narrow.

“What?”

“Not you. I—”

The room bathes a hauntingly familiar shade of red.

_“You are a worm through time. The thunder song distorts you. Happiness comes.”_

Dylan is watching from outside his body now. He can see himself, behind Jesse’s desk, eyes rolled back, Hiss chant spilling out of him. Jesse is trying to talk to him, trying to get him to hear him, to stop. She sounds so panicked. He can feel the panic, too.

 _I hear you,_ he thinks. _I want to stop. I can’t stop. I can just watch. I can hear you, Jesse. Can you hear me?_

He remembers being like this. A foggy distant memory. Like a dream. In Central Executive.

And earlier today. At the turntable. 

Was he? 

No, he was in control of his body. No… no, he wasn’t. He was in his body, but he doesn’t remember. He was… sleepwalking. 

Dreaming.

He and the Hiss were talking.

* * *

The Hiss was asking him questions. About Jesse. The Hiss should know. It shared with him. Just like he shared with it. But it asked questions. _Does she care about you? Why would she do that, if it hurt you? Turn off the slide projector? Make you wear a Hedron Resonance Amplifier? Why does she make you? Where would the Slide Projector be?_

He doesn’t know the answer to any of those questions. Except the last one. _The Ordinary Dump._

_Are you sure?_

He felt his power _—_ the Hiss’s power _—_ _their_ power reaching out, pushing through the Oldest House, looking ahead, feeling around, searching. He isn’t sure. But they’re desperate.

Why are they desperate?

_To get freedom._

From what?

_This prison._

Right. _The lockdown won’t lift while the Hiss is here. That won’t work._

His headache thrummed.

_You’re sick. The Bureau is hurting you._

A weight lifts off his chest. Through the cobwebs in his mind, he could see his HRA fall from the top of the turntable and shatter on the distant floor.

_Doesn’t that feel better? Doesn’t it feel right?_

The incantation washes over him. _Yes. Yes, it does._

_Hedron hurts us. Hedron needs to be gone before we can be free._

_Jesse likes Hedron. She likes Polaris. She won’t like that._

_Ask her. See what the Director says. Your ultimatum. She wants to say these words._

* * *

Dylan shudders, watching himself in the Director’s office, as memories drift through his hands like sand.


	16. Can You Hear Me? I Can’t Hear You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning in place for this chapter-- see the end notes for specifics.

It really feels like a nightmare.

Like _the_ nightmare.

The Director’s office is bathed in red. The horror of the incantation, the din of it, the pressure filling the air, feels so much stronger than it has in a long, long time.

Her baby brother, here again, in the office. _Here._ He’s _here,_ but _hurting_. She feels like she can’t do anything. Like in Ordinary. It’s too much. It’s all too much. She can barely hear herself shouting to him, asking him to stop, or asking the Hiss to _let him go._ Trying to reach him through the Hiss, bring him back somehow. She feels lost. He’s stuck behind a desk with her name on it, held so tightly by something that wants to kill him, and it feels like nothing is getting better.

 _Help. You have to help me. You have to help him,_ Jesse pleads to Polaris. _It can’t be like before. We have to free him._ _I don’t know what to do anymore. You have to help us._

The empty picture frames on the Director’s desk rattle. The air shifts and hisses.

Then Jesse feels something different. Something new.

It rushes through her, from her outstretched arm, across the desk, _into_ the noise, pushing it back. It knocks Dylan to the floor. It pushes the Hiss back. Makes it quieter. Somewhat.

Polaris ripples through the room, then returns, flickering gently in Jesse’s vision.

 _Did I do that? Did_ **_you_ ** _do that? What_ —

Dylan winces behind the desk. Jesse’s by his side in seconds.

“Dylan?” her voice wobbles, still uneven from crying and rife with adrenaline. “Are you okay? I— is it gone?” He blinks absently, staring straight ahead. She tries to help him up some, get him into a sitting position, and he lets her, eyes fixed forward. His body feels distant. He tries to tell himself to sit up, to press his back against the wall and curl in on himself, but he doesn’t. He can hear Jesse asking him questions. He hears her, but it doesn’t process. What did she say?

_Is it gone?_

“No,” he whispers, like the Hiss can hear him. He can feel his sister’s hand on his shoulder. He can feel the dull pain in his head. The cool of the air in the room. The fear in his chest. He presses his heels into the rough carpet and pushes himself up against the wall. “No.”

Jesse searches over him anxiously, looking for injuries.

“Are you okay?” she asks again, glancing toward the double doors to the office. _There’s no way someone didn’t hear that. Any of it. The argument, the Hiss, the… whatever that was. Where is everyone?_

Dylan laughs absently— a ghost of a laugh, distant and fearful, eyes still locked on the nothing ahead of him.

“Something’s wrong. I’m not supposed to tell you.” The smile slides off his face as he finds the strength to meet Jesse’s eyes, swallowing back his fear. _Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong and I need to tell you._ “It’s happening. Again. I tricked it. Or. It tricked me. Or… I tricked myself… I...”

An alarm blares through the Bureau. Dylan flinches, and the nervous laugh comes back.

A phone is ringing. _The_ phone is ringing. The Hotline is on Jesse’s desk.

“Your boss wants you,” Dylan says, pulling his knees closer to his chest. “Your boss with your boss with you…” he trails.

Jesse lets it ring, hand still on his shoulder, worry still tight in her chest. The alarm still blares.

She swears she can hear the phone ring _louder_.

She reluctantly pulls herself to her feet, blindly reaching for the receiver on the desk, eyes on Dylan. The room blurs white and quiet as she holds it up to her ear. The Bureau, Dylan, Polaris; it all slides into static and light. The Board fills her perception in its place.

**< Handle/hash out >**

**< the fight/squabble/trauma in the future. >**

**< This cause is important/worthy/urgent. >**

**< NSC/conduit/roommate is under hostile attack. >**

**< The Hiss/enemy is concentrating/gathering >**

**< to obtain more power/parautilitarian/access. >**

**< You must curb/end this attack. >**

**< Do not bring the brother. >**

**< The brother/Hiss/node >**

**< is a risk/irritation/disadvantage. >**

**< Do not bring the dissent/disappointment/previous/brother. >**

**< Destruction/removal of Hiss nodes/hubs/nails weakens Hiss presence. >**

**< The Director/conduit/Chosen must make the hard/beneficial/correct decision. >**

**< Consider wisely/carefully. >**

**< The Bureau/We are watching. >**

The world blooms back in a glaring flash. 

Polaris is back. The floor is under Jesse’s feet. A cold trickle of blood drips down her upper lip. She wipes it away almost automatically with her thumb.

“They don’t like me,” Dylan says quietly behind her, almost in a sing-song voice. “Or maybe just the Hiss. Or maybe it’s both. Maybe I _am_ both,” he hums. Jesse turns, phone still clutched in her hand, and sees Dylan has a nosebleed to match her own.

“You heard them?”

“Your phone call was loud. I was eavesdropping. I don’t think they knew. I was spying.” Dylan’s shoulders twitch into a shrug, a lopsided grin growing slowly across his face. “Oops. Don’t tell them. Don’t tell it, either. The Hiss would be mad. Really mad…”

Jesse searches for words and fails to find any. She places the receiver back on the Hotline, and it vanishes from her desk. Her knees hit the floor gently, situating her to Dylan’s side.

“It’s getting louder again,” he says, fingers clasping around the edges of his sweater. “Someone’s knocking on the door.” 

Jesse’s brow knits together, but before she can ask what he means, a knock rings out from the front of her office.

“Ta-da,” Dylan says, barely audible.

A ranger pushes the door open as Jesse stands to her feet.

“Ma’am? We need you in Central Executive.”

“Okay,” she says, taking a deep breath. “I’ll be right there.” The ranger gives her a curt nod and vanishes down the hallway. She turns back to face Dylan, still curled in on himself.

“Do you want to stay in here?” Jesse asks, throat still tight from crying.

“No,” he answers softly, then sets his jaw. “ _Yes_. Yes. I won’t leave. I’ll stay here. It’s too loud out there.”

Jesse doesn’t want to leave either. She wants to help. To make it right.

The alarm echoes through the House’s halls.

The Board gave their orders.

The staff are awaiting her in Central Executive.

_My brother needs help._

Dylan suddenly looks up at her, voice tense and urgent.

“Wait. Jesse, I— you need to go back. To the Ordinary AWE. Here. To the dump. The Board doesn’t know what the Hiss is doing.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s trying to trick you. Me. It’s— I don’t know. This is confusing. You need to go. It’s really important, it’s _really,_ _really_ important.”

_I want to just stay here. Stay with him._

Polaris revolves in her view, reassuring her, trying to push her out the door. _It will be alright._

“Are you going to be okay?” She asks, casting her brother a sympathetic glance. _I love you._

Dylan’s eyes unfocus. He considers answering, then just looks to her again. _It’s really important._

Jesse finally turns to leave, despite the resistance she feels. But he’s right. Dylan’s right. She has to take care of this, whatever this is.

“I’ll be right back. I promise.”

* * *

Polaris keeps pushing her, guiding her— she feels the tug to Central Executive, and she feels the distant drag toward the Ordinary AWE. To the dump. She just knows, she can feel it. Like Dylan said. _It’s important._

Central Executive is crawling with activity. Researchers are scrambling to get out of the way of rangers and security alike, turning to Emily for guidance as she directs them between rooms and shelters and desks. Arish is in front of the “war table”, the map now peppered with marks and notes around Maintenance. He’s calling orders, like when Jesse first met him, or outside the Quarry. He spots her across the room and sticks his arm in the air, waving her down as she parts through the sea of people.

“Faden! Hey!” He shakes his head in disbelief when she reaches him. “Deja vu, am I right? The Hiss is attacking the NSC, cause I guess they have a vendetta out on me. But it really is huge. It’s like the whole damn collective of the things are there. It overwhelmed the rangers posted and several groups had to fall back. It’s like— like their last ditch effort or somethin’. Whatever it is they want in there, they want it _bad_.”

Before Jesse can respond, an armorer catches Arish’s elbow and pulls him aside, both dipping into a hushed conversation, away from the other rangers. She turns to take stock on all the chaos around her. Really, it isn’t chaos— everyone moves with a deftness. She catches Emily’s eye, and despite it all she brightens and hurries over to her.

“How’d it go?” she asks. Jesse takes a moment to realize she means the talk with Dylan.

“Uh. I’ll tell you later. What are things looking like? What do we need to do?”

“It’s not great,” she grimaces, then puts out a hand. “Well, no, everyone’s evacuated from the area except some ranger teams holding the frontlines. But we’re all organizing here. Everyone is really taking to their roles. I mean, despite it all it really is going— sorry. Now’s not the time— I— we’re getting teams together and getting ready to move out. If the Hiss got inside—”

“I know,” Jesse says, thinking about Northmoor. Thinking about when the Hiss got her. How they had Dylan.

 _Have_ Dylan.

“We’re hoping you can help us. We’ve never seen numbers of Hiss like this. Arish knows more, of course, I’m making sure everyone and all our resources are squared away.” She pauses for a breath, then cocks her head. “Where’s Dylan?” Jesse bounces anxiously from foot to foot.

“He’s in my office. I— look— Emily, do you think everyone could hold it without me? For just a little while. I think.” Emily’s face twists in confusion.

“I… suppose so, but why—”

“I need to go to the Ordinary AWE. Dylan said so. And Polaris. They both did. I can’t explain it, but it’s. I wouldn’t do this, I wouldn’t avoid—”

“Okay,” Emily says slowly, nodding. “Okay. I trust you.” Jesse opens her mouth to try and argue her point, then shuts it. _What?_

“Okay,” Emily says again. “We’re with you. We’ve got you.” A staffer walks by stumbling with a tower of boxes, and Emily turns to snatch the two off the top.

Jesse’s mouth twitches into a smile as she turns back to the crowd, still flowing like a river through the room among the noise of the crowd and the alarm. Across the way, Arish catches Jesse’s attention over the sea of heads. He’s practically stage whispering trying to get her to look his way, and she gives him an odd look.

“ _N-S-C?”_ he mouths.

“ _What?”_ Jesse mouths back.

“ _NORTHMOOR,”_ he silently over-enunciates each syllable. _“N-S-C? NORTHMOOR? SARCOPHAGUS CONTAINER?”_

Jesse can’t help but crack a smile as she nods. Arish’s jaw drops open and his eyes widen.

“ _WHAT THE—_ ”

“Jesse,” Emily says, and Jesse’s attention snaps to her. “Do whatever you need to do. We’ll be on call. All the radios and intercoms should be up, and all the Control points around Maintenance are still intact.”

“I’ll be right back. Promise. It’s my mess to clean up, and I’ll be there,” Jesse says, more of a mantra for herself than anything. Emily starts to turn away, when Jesse suddenly remembers what she needs. “Wait. Do we have extra HRAs?”

* * *

The alarm has finally quieted by the time she reaches the double doors again. She holds the HRA by the straps, letting it bounce gently against her legs. The light from the hall slices into her dark office and hits her chair, where Dylan has situated himself again. He doesn’t look up to greet her.

“Hey,” Jesse starts, crossing the room to her desk, gently laying the HRA on top. “Are you alright?”

He doesn’t answer, instead watching his own hands, fingers twitching and tense.

“Do I have to wear that?” he asks, voice low. 

_Well. He’s not in a worse mood_.

“I think you should. I think it helps you. But that’s your choice," she answers. His eyes flit up to her face, looking for something. He finds whatever it is, and reaches slowly across the desk, scooping the HRA up. “I’m going to the dump, like you said. I feel it too. Whatever it is. The need to go there.”

Dylan nods, snapping the last buckles on the HRA into place with a _click._

_Good,_ he thinks to himself. _That’s good._

_I think._

“Everyone is getting ready to head to Maintenance. If you want you _—_ ” She means to say _can find somewhere quiet,_ but Polaris fills her vision and floods her mind, bringing her sentence to a halt. Dylan glares, watching her shift around his sister’s head. _Bring him. Invite him. Both of you._

“Do you want to _—_ ”

“I heard her,” Dylan snaps. “Because a field trip together will solve all our problems, obviously.” He lays his hands flat on the desk.

Jesse waits for an answer, anxious. Polaris teems quietly in the back of her mind. 

“Sure,” Dylan finally groans, pulling himself to his feet. “Okay. Let’s go ‘ _home_ ’.”

* * *

The walk together is tense.

He’s still angry. Still hurts. The wound is still raw. His head buzzes.

They slip through the glass-walled offices, static in the noise of the crowd in Central Executive, weaving quietly toward the elevator, away from everyone’s notice. Dylan eyes the inverted pyramid, nearly touching the center of the Control Point. Somewhere in the fog of his mind he remembers standing under it. Hiss pulsing through him. Researchers eyeing him with fear as he surrendered. In a way. To something. 

He surrendered to something.

It felt good.

The elevator doors shut, and the noise of the crowd dies away. The elevator rattles and rocks gently, and Dylan realizes his sister is practically bouncing on her toes, tapping her fingers against her jeans.

“This is going to take way too long,” she says, smacking a button and bringing the elevator to a halt at the nearest sector. “Can you use Control points?”

Dylan glances at her sideways.

“ _Use?_ ”

“Like. Warp with them. ...teleport.”

“...no.”

“Have you tried?” she asks as the door reopens, already moving out and down the halls. Dylan hurries after her.

“No.”

“Okay,” Jessie says, coming to stop in the middle of a taped out circle, dishes and instruments and lights still perched around it. “First time for everything.” 

Dylan stops just outside the circle, toes barely touching the tape.

“It’s safe. I promise. It’s like…” she frowns. “I don’t know what it’s like. Like… driving through a tunnel, it’s really dark, but then you’re on the other side. But way faster than driving.” She looks at him and holds out her hand. He squints back, still leery.

“You’ve done this with someone else before?”

“No.”

“Is this a good idea?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly, shrugging.

Dylan gingerly steps into the circle. He doesn’t take Jesse’s hand, so she rests it on his shoulder. _He’s tall. When did he get taller than me?_

“Now what?” Dylan asks, eyes flitting around the room with anxious, unspent energy. Jesse takes a deep breath and shuts her eyes, using all her focus.

Dylan sees Polaris shift in front of them, between them. A deep, resonating, _gong_ fills his head and his vision goes black, as something pulls him through a void. Jesse’s hand remains firm on his shoulder. Something in him burns, screaming, twisting and writhing in resistance against it all, in pain, until it stops altogether. Relief.

They come out of the darkness in the Bureau’s Ordinary AWE. 

They come out in Ordinary. A model of the whole town. Of home.

Polaris is eager. They can both feel it.

Dylan can feel something else. In the dump. The Hiss. Reaching out. Seeping. Permeating everything.

He can feel Polaris stronger, too.

That’s… it’s…

_Bad._

_It’s bad. Why does she think she can just do that?_

He didn’t let her in. Why can he feel her?

Is it the HRA? Or… the Control Point?

Jesse?

_Why does she think she can just do that?_

She’s already passed partway through the small version of their home when she hears the metal _thunk_ against the floor. Dylan’s HRA is laying at his feet. Jesse’s face falls.

“Is this a trick?” he asks, accusing.

“What?” Jesse falters.

“A test? Another experiment? To see what I do? How Hedron affects me?”

“I _—_ Dylan, I don’t understand. You told me to come here, we both feel _—_ ”

“That’s all any of this is. Right? I’m the experiment. The test subject. That’s what you came to talk about. Because I ruined your results. And you’re trying to change me. _Trick me_.”

His voice echoes off the plain white house facades, carrying through the room. Jesse feels her anxious excitement mutate into an ache in her chest.

“No! That _—_ Dylan that’s not _—_ I’m not _—_ that’s not fair.”

“Fair?” he laughs, and Jesse regrets her words almost immediately. “Fair? Me getting locked up for my whole life while you run free is fair?” The tears prick in the edges of Jesse’s eyes again.

“No. God, Dylan. I’m trying to help you. Because I _—_ ”

“Your best friend in Research. Casper’s favorite little scientist. She put you up to it.”

“Emily didn’t _—_ ”

“Seventeen years.” His voice gets stronger, finding its fire. Finding its fuel.

“Just, calm _—_ ”

“ _Seventeen years_ ,” he shouts, cutting Jesse off. “I was supposed to be their director. A perfect little replacement. I never wanted it. They convinced me I did, and then they just… I was never good enough. It was never good enough. I’m not good enough. And now look!” he throws his arms open, gesturing around them, and to her. “All of that for _what?_ Trench’s pet project, for _what?”_ His voice echoes. It reverberates and resonates until the room falls deathly silent.

Jesse’s frozen in place, among the cheap wooden houses and trees. Dylan quiets.

“So I let it in. The Hiss knew. And I did so much.”

“Dylan, it could’ve killed you.”

“I know.” _I knew._

Dylan swallows down his response, not meeting Jesse’s eyes, not wanting to say it. How he felt. He hadn’t really thought about his thought process. The realization of what fueled his choice to let the Hiss in sends a bolt of fear up his spine.

It was survival. It was the last option. It was 17 years of anger. Of desperation. Revenge. He didn’t know what would happen.

He didn’t care what the result was.

He doesn’t feel like that anymore.

His eyes flit to Jesse. She’s crying. Oh God, she’s crying. And he’s so mad.

“I can’t just stop,” he says.

“The Hiss?” Jesse asks, voice still holding strong.

_The Hiss? No._

“Being mad.”

“I’m not asking you to stop being mad,” Jesse answers, a laugh escaping instead of a sob.

_Oh._

_Stop the Hiss,_ Dylan thinks. _Stop the Hiss. To leave. For the lockdown to lift. They have to stop the Hiss. Get rid of it. Does that mean getting rid of me? They can’t. But they would, the FBC hates_ _—_

_Jesse doesn’t hate me. She just wants the Hiss out of me._

_But I’m safe._

_What would happen without the Hiss?_

_It’s safe to be with the Hiss. I am safe with the Hiss. It understands. It knows what it's like. To be hated. To ache. To hurt. To want. I’m protected. Powerful. It is the only thing that understands me. I know it wants the same thing that I want._

_Does it?_

_Does it want the same thing?_

_Is it using me?_

_Consuming me?_

He knew. He always knew, somewhere, in the peripheral. But he convinced himself otherwise. He closed his eyes and didn’t look. He drifted into the Hiss and let it carry him and didn’t give it further thought. Because it was power. It was safety. He thought it was what he wanted. That he could control it.

The Hiss made quick work of his wants and insecurities. His wrath. His grief. His fear. And it felt good. Sometimes. A release, finally. Revenge. Never mind that Trench and Darling were dead. The Hiss told him what he wanted now. 

It felt good enough to ignore the fear. It felt good enough to forget the fear. The nightmares. The lies seemed right. The Hiss made him forget his questions. 

He was in a fog. He thought he had what he wanted.

But now?

It’s like getting hurt as a kid, and being fine until you see the blood.

It’s like shadows in the edge of your vision that always escape your view, now illuminated by the light.

It’s like pulling back a curtain to reveal the horror you’ve been dreading, that you ignored.

It’s like tearing down the poster on the wall.

_The Hiss is using me._

_The Hiss is killing me._

_We build you till nothing remains._

_It’s resonating in me. It’s going to leave nothing left._

_Repeat the word._

_The name of the sound._

_It resonates in your house._

_It’s going to destroy me. Consume me._

_You are home._

_You remind us of home._

_I need to get it out._

**_I need to get it out._ **

_No._

The Hiss grabs him. Tightens its grip. The trick almost worked. To get Jesse alone. To get Hedron alone. To take her. To end her.

It’s so close now. It can’t lose.

It can’t lose Dylan.

He’s vulnerable. _Desperate._ Malleable. And now she is too.

The room is red. His voice is so loud. Its voice is so loud. Jesse is yelling against it, pushing forward toward him, calling his name. She’s so far away. So distant. Polaris is pushing forward with her.

_“When you hear this you will know you’re in new you._

_You want to listen._

_You want to dream._

_You want to smile._

_You want to hurt._

_You don’t want to be.”_

The Hiss is loud. It is so, so loud. Dylan just wants to sleep. His thoughts swim. He wants to sleep. But he can’t. It's so loud.

_She doesn’t forgive you and you’re in too deep. Commit. Tear it all down. She hates you. She hates us. Commit. Destroy it all. We are powerful._

He sees her, hair and jacket whipping in the wind, the resonance filling every empty space. She’s yelling. _She’s mad, isn’t she? She’s so mad at me._

For the lockdown to lift, the Hiss has to be gone. Purged.

For them to be free, Hedron must be destroyed.

Jesse.

_She’ll kill you._

Polaris presses out around Jesse, keeping her safe like a diver’s helmet in deep pressurized water. The Hiss is looking for a leak, pushing hard, pressing in around her. _It was a trick. It wants me alone._

Jesse is reaching for Dylan, trying to purge the Hiss from him. Polaris is reaching, stretching, pushing.

Jesse is so tired. Exhausted.

She sees Dylan fall toward the floor before her eyes fall shut, and she drifts into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for suicidal ideation


	17. Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Content warning: Some self loathing)

Hiss corruption felt like the edge of a nightmare, barely awake, sleep always fleeting. Hauntingly familiar and wrong, despite the constant foreign reassurance that it’s right, _it’s right, it’s right. It’s home. It reminds you of home._

This feels… 

It feels.

The blurry edge of a dream, of deep sleep, of near-awakeness.

Jesse knows she’s _somewhere_. Polaris is here, too. Her brother. And the Hiss. But it’s not her head. Not her dream. She’s a guest. A prisoner? An observer? A player?

Or is it her dream? She can feel all her memories; the familiarity of the things drawn upon.

It’s not restful. It’s not reassuring. 

The comfort of Polaris is far away; her guiding star a distant light. She knows she’s not been abandoned, though. It isn’t a recurring nightmare. Not like last time. She knows Polaris is protecting her. Protecting them. Jesse just _knows_.

Her feet find purchase in the wet dirt and gravel outside school.

_Of course Polaris isn’t here. We haven’t met yet. We’re just kids._

Dylan is on the field of the playground, sitting cross legged on the edge of the grass in the dirt in front of the chain link fence. Jesse’s on the other side, watching him pick at his shoelaces. It all feels familiar. Like nostalgia, but a false memory. This never really happened. 

_It’s a dream._ Jesse reminds herself. _I’m dreaming._ We’re _dreaming. I won’t let the Hiss keep us here._

Jesse stands close enough that the toes of her shoes hit the fence, making it rattle, and watches as memories come back in flashes— the Hiss nightmare, and Dylan separated from her behind glass. Like Central Executive. Like now, the fence between them. She hooks her fingers through the gaps, pressing her face up against it to look down at him.

He keeps picking at his shoes, tracing the treads with his nails. He doesn’t look up at her.

Jesse feels the cool of the metal against her skin.

_Talk to him. We need to talk._

“Are you okay?” she asks.

Dylan pauses, pinching his shoelaces between his fingers. After a moment or two, he goes back to picking at them, running his fingers over the eyelets.

“I got beat up today,” he mumbles.

Jesse bristles, grasp on the fence tightening.

“What? When? Was it Tom?” she scowls. “Tom Barlow, I’ll—”

“No,” Dylan sniffs. “It wasn’t Tom.”

“Oh,” Jesse slows. “Who was it? I can—”

“It doesn’t matter. It already happened. And…” Dylan wipes his face across his sleeve, voice dropping quieter than it already is. “You weren’t there.”

_Oh._

“I feel— I feel like you forgot,” he says, blinking away tears. “Like you forgot about me. That they came and got me and you forgot.”

Jesse crouches down, putting her knees in the dirt, peering through the chainlink at her brother. He still won’t look up, eyes still affixed to the ground.

“I’m here now,” she says. It feels like an echo. Like they’ve had this conversation before. But it feels new— like they’re finally hearing each other. Finally understanding each other. Finally understanding themselves. Dylan balls his fists up in his lap.

“I— I don’t know. I feel like… like…” There’s a whisper that starts to fill in the silence between them. A very loud whisper. It’s almost painful. It takes up so much space that it makes it hard to think. Dylan looks up to meet Jesse, glassy-eyed. “I feel like it’s too late. I want— it feels like you’re too late. I think— I think something already got to me.”

The whisper becomes a scream, splitting through their minds, through their vision, fracturing the playground, a blinding flash of red and blue. The dream fades away into a blur, the scenery changing. Jesse and Dylan can’t see each other anymore, but they know they’re both still there, together.

Polaris is getting nearer. Jesse can feel her. She feels the Hiss, warping and twisting. When the two meet, she hears only deafening silence.

The world comes back into view again, the brain fog lifting. Jesse takes a moment to orient herself, taking in the scene around her.

The P6 Containment Cell.

She sees it all from above, levitating in the middle of the room, just behind Dylan’s cell. It’s not as familiar to her— not how she’s used to seeing it. The glass is intact, held together by thick beams of metal and Blackrock. A strong prison. The viewing deck across the room is together— no chunks of ceiling or cell thrown through it, no rubble, no shrapnel. No blood. 

No staff, either.

The whole room is a ghost town.

It’s just Dylan. Alone in his cell.

Lights are flashing in the halls beyond the viewing deck, through the doors. A distant alarm is blaring through the panopticon. The internal lockdown. Jesse looks down to see herself, and finds she’s an invisible watcher. She lets off soft refractions of blue light.

Polaris shimmers in the edge of her consciousness.

 _I’m you,_ Jesse thinks, half a statement, half a question. _Am I you? Am I watching this dream from… from your point of view? Where are you right now?_

Polaris doesn’t answer. 

_Whose dream is this? What is happening?_ Jesse fishes for answers, for explanation, for understanding. Why this dream? How are they having this dream?

Polaris pushed them both here. She told them both to come to the Dump.

_Was this dream part of the plan? I don’t get it. Help me understand._

Dylan is pacing restlessly across the metal floor, staring out toward the halls, twitching with energy. He moves with a sudden deftness, slamming a fist into the glass, making the whole box reverberate.

“ _Hey!_ ” he shouts to the empty, echoing room. Only the echoing alarm answers back.

There’s a sound of the security doors sliding open, and both siblings crane to see who’s coming. _What’s coming_.

A group of rangers trickle in, weapons drawn and readied, HRAs strapped to their chests. Dylan straightens up, balling up his fists, clenching his teeth.

Something else trickles in, too. It spills into the room, filling the expanses, changing the lights, the sounds. It makes Dylan’s blood run cold. He can hear the rangers shouting, indistinct, frantic. He can hear something else, too.

Panic jolts through Jesse. _No. No, it can’t take him. I can’t let it have him._ She rushes down to meet him, to protect him. 

Hedron— the antithesis of Hiss. Safety.

 _No. No, not you,_ he hisses. _Never you. I told you to just leave me alone_. He tries to push her out, keep her at bay. The Hiss slips into his mind, burrowing in, taking up space. Dylan sees a glimpse of what the Hiss can do— what it says it can do. The good feeling. The power. 

_The pain,_ Polaris whispers. _It lies. It hurts you_.

The Hiss pushes against her, muffling her, trying to silence her. 

_We can get rid of her_. _Do you want to end this?_

“Yes,” he says out loud, voice quivering. He distantly hears the volley of the Ranger’s shots bounce off his cell. A bitter rage flares up inside him.

_No, Dylan. Please._

_Your sister is here. Do you want to see her?_

“Yes,” he repeats again.

_We both want to take this building. This Bureau. We both want freedom. We are powerful together._

“My sister...” he trails, like he didn’t even hear the rest of the Hiss’s offer, the rest of the earworm. 

The sheer release, the tantalizing concept of _freedom_ , of tearing apart everything the FBC had ever done, of finally seeing Jesse, fills his every thought as the Hiss lay claim to him, as he invites them in, as he shares with it, and it amplifies him, making his emotions louder, his power stronger, until it’s overwhelming, and he slips away from it all.

Jesse’s whole mind fills with a sharp pressure, pounding with pain, and then she can’t hear him anymore. She can’t hear the Hiss anymore. She’s watching from the outside again. The other side of the glass.

Dylan stumbles, catching himself on the wall, struggling to keep his footing. The room blisters and warps, an oil slick of color and light, red spilling in everywhere, bleeding and bubbling and burning, until it quiets suddenly, growing distant, darker. Growing weaker. Silence creeps back in again.

Jesse breaks the silence suddenly, voice rife with emotion— words from a memory. 

“No! He’s _not_ dead. My brother is _alive_ , he’s _out there, somewhere_ , and it wasn’t an industrial accident! I— I feel like I— like… I left him. I have to find him.”

The murky scene slowly takes shape. White plaster walls, posters with poor graphic design, fake plastic plants covered in dust reflecting the sickly fluorescent lights. Dylan is watching from the corner of the room. Jesse is near him on a couch, fingers gripping the edges of the cushions, back straight, face twisted in some tragic emotion, still trying to argue her case, to share the truth. There’s a woman sitting in a plush chair in a white button up and slacks. She reminds him of Carla Vaughn— her demeanor, her looks— and some memory that isn’t his tells him that this woman asks insufferable, unanswerable questions too. 

_Is that Jesse’s memory?_ he thinks, mind clear from the sickness of the Hiss. _Is_ this _Jesse’s memory? Her dream?_

“Your imaginary friend? Polaris?” the woman asks. Her tone even makes Dylan flare with anger. The degrading, infantilizing questions.

“She’s been gone for a _long_ time, I— I’ve shut her out before, but she’s back now, and I— I _need_ to go somewhere, I _have_ to be there at a _specific_ time, I—” The rest of Jesse’s sentence becomes static to Dylan as he tries to process what he’s hearing. What his sister is saying. _Polaris was gone? Jesse… Jesse shut her out?_ The woman in the chair’s next words brings Dylan back to the conversation.

“You know we can’t let you leave until you’re better. Until you admit that this is all in your head, Jesse.”

Dylan _aches_. He feels his sister ache. It’s too familiar, too real. He feels her memories blend with his, her emotions; her loneliness with his, her anger, her pain— it mixes with his own, and he feels a sob rack through his body. It’s all so much. _Too_ much. 17 years of being trapped— lied to, mistreated, abandoned, ignored, mocked, _alone_. Both of them. It’s different. None of it is the same. His pain is his own, and her’s, her own. But the connection is there.

The injustice. The wrongness. The anger. Another sob racks through him. The memories flood back, all at once, overwhelming him. The dump. Roberts. All of Casper’s lies. Trench on the sidelines, refusing to see him, to talk to him. Casper disappearing. _Giving up on him. Ashamed of him._ Polaris haunting him. Taunting him. The deaths. The bodycount. The Panopticon. The cell. The day after day after day after day of being caged and observed and treated like a thing, an _it_ , until the Hiss. Until he surrendered himself to it. Surrendered himself in Central Executive.

Central Executive. The cell Marshall built.

The metal floor is cold under his feet. Jesse is separated from him by the glass, on the outside.

But this is different. The Hiss is still distant— Polaris is still distant.

It’s just them, together.

Jesse presses a hand up against the glass.

“It’s too late,” Dylan says, breath hitching. “It’s— it’s not my fault, I just…”

“It’s not too late,” Jesse reassures, pressing closer to the glass. Dylan shrinks back, trying to make himself smaller.

“You saw,” he says, the echo of their previous conversation not lost on her. “I let it in. I welcomed it.”

“We can push it out, Dylan, I did—”

“I _liked_ it,” Dylan snaps. “It felt good. It felt _so_ good. Before the Hiss. I killed them before the Hiss. And when it arrived? I _loved_ it. Or— it told me to love it. I can’t tell anymore. Sometimes it even said what I wanted. Did what I wanted. When I killed—” his sentence comes to a grinding halt before he can finish it, the word dying like poison on his tongue, like bile in the back of his throat, and he swallows back a sob instead. _I can’t just stop. I can’t just stop being mad._ Jesse purses her lips together, feeling her throat tighten.

“You’re my brother, Dylan. I love you.”

Dylan looks away, like the words burn him, like it hurts to look at her, shaking his head.

“Maybe they were right to lock me up.”

“ _No._ ”

“Maybe they weren’t. Trench _never_ liked me. Casper gave up on me. After I— it’s _his fault_ , I— they never _listened,_ they _didn’t_ ,” Dylan presses his back into the opposite wall, sliding down to the floor, pressing a hand over his mouth, whispering. “They deserved it. I deserved it. Because I’d do it. I _did_ do it. And I hurt you. I hurt you so much. I ruined all his research. And it was amazing. I loved every moment of it. Because I hate Polaris. Darling. I hate them. I _hate them_. I _deserve_ it. Everyone gives up on me. Abandons me. They’re ashamed of me.”

“ _No,_ Dylan—”

“I’m so scared to let you in,” he whispers. “I think it’s too late. I think they— they live here. In me. I don’t think I can let go. I don’t think— I can’t think. I can’t think. Jesse, I can’t think. I don’t know anymore.”

Jesse wishes she could reach him, with every fiber of her being. She reaches out for him, mentally, physically, trying to get through to him, to tell her baby brother it’s okay, it will be okay. All is not lost. All is not lost.

 _If this is my dream, I can control it_ , she thinks, pressing both hands against the glass, trying to will it to break, to vanish, for a door, _anything_.

Nothing happens.

“Please let me help,” Jesse says. “Let me be there for you.”

Dylan breathes, pressing a hand against his face, wiping away tears. He stares at his sister, wide-eyed, frantic.

He reaches out for her, leaning forward, and the glass disappears. Jesse steps in, stepping toward him, reaching for him.

The Hiss crashes back into the room, knocking the breath out of them both, ripping Dylan away from her, dragging him into its speech, its song. Jesse’s screams of protest are drowned in the sound as Polaris wraps around her, protecting her from its grasp. She can’t see her brother, she can’t hear him, can’t feel him. He’s lost in the Hiss, in the waves. 

“ **Under the conceptual reality behind this reality you must want these waves to drag you away,** ” the Hiss speaks on its own, encapsulating Jesse and Polaris, isolating them. “ **After the song, time for applause. This cliché is death out of time, breaking the first the second the third the fourth wall, fifth wall, floor; no floor: you fall! How do you say ‘insane’? Hurts to be happy.** ”

“Let him _go_ ,” Jesse snaps.

“ **An earworm is a tune you can’t stop humming in a dream.** ”

Jesse pushes against the waves of sound with Polaris, trying to carve a path forward, trying to listen, to hear Dylan, to reach him.

“ **The last egg breaks now.** ”

“I’ll find him. You’re losing.” She presses on.

“ **You don’t want to be.** ”

Jesse can understand it, the meaning, the implication. It wants her dead. It won’t make the mistake of trying to take her again. It wants Hedron dead. It was winning, and she stopped it. _They_ stopped it. And now it’s taunting her. With Dylan.

“ **You are home. You remind us of home.** ”

It’s like hearing the Board— the static, the alien, all making sense somehow, all having meaning. _Dylan is ours. Dylan is our home. Trench was our home. Now Dylan is our Home._ _We take over our weaker hosts. We took him. He is ours. He is dead._

“You’re _wrong_ ,” Jesse states— sure of herself, a command, a mantra, hoping Dylan can hear her. Polaris echoes it.

 _Grow brighter._

The Hiss shrinks back.

“See?”

Jesse presses deeper, reaching out, feeling for Dylan. She senses him, somewhere nearby, arguing with the Hiss.

“Jesse wants to help me.”

_She is Hedron. She is Polaris._

“It doesn’t _matter_. She— she cares about me. I think she understands.”

_She’s a puppet. Hedron’s puppet. It’s infecting her, manipulating her. Just like Darling. Just like the whole FBC._

“I hate them.”

_We hate them. You are a part of us. We are the same._

“I— I don’t know.”

_It feels good. It feels right._

“No. No, it feels wrong. I— I’m doing... it’s _changing_. It can get better—”

The Hiss flares in anger, in desperation.

_A lie. Hedron lies._

“No. Jesse loves me. She’s not lying. She’s trying to understand. Make things better.”

**_You’ve always been the new you. You want this to be true._ **

The incantation rushes over him, an overwhelming pain, a paralyzing migraine, too intense for him to argue or think. It melts into a hazy calm, fuzzy and distant.

Dylan is sitting at the Director’s desk.

Jesse walks in to bring him his mail.

Dylan stands up with a start, knocking the chair over, pushing the desk back. Jesse jumps in surprise.

“You’re not my sister. I know my sister. You’re not her.”

“What? Of course—” 

“Shut up,” he says, pushing past her, out through the doors into the hall. His portrait is hung up at the end, a determined painted smirk. He rips it off the wall, letting the frame clatter to the ground. He’s vaguely aware of staff around him. None of them react. _Rip the poster off the wall._

“Dylan!” someone cries behind him. He spins on his heel, seeing Casper Darling standing at the end of the hall. He feels the Service Weapon manifest in his hand.

_Do it. Kill him. Your revenge._

Not-Jesse walks out of his office, watching him, waiting, smiling.

“Do it Dylan. You’re the Director. You’ve got to clean up this mess.”

_It’s right, this is right, it’s right. It’s what we want. What you want._

The Service Weapon burns hot in his hand, quivering with potential energy. Darling just stands there, like he’s inviting him to fire.

_Tear the poster off the wall._

Dylan throws the gun as hard as he can, flying forward, soaring right through Darling, who dissipates into a wisp of color, and the gun bounces off the end of the hall.

“It doesn’t _matter!_ ” Dylan screams. “It’s not real! None of it’s real!” Not-Jesse’s smile falls into a deadly stare.

Dylan can hear the distant chant of the Hiss. The incantation he knows so well. He feels it pulling him back toward the office, trying to reset it all. Try again.

 _You need me,_ Dylan realizes in a chill, stomach lurching. _I don’t need you. You need me. A trick. This is a trick. All of it. None of this is real. None of it. I don’t need you._

Not-Jesse screams. It’s ear-splitting. Unearthly. It makes his ears bleed. He clutches his head, shrinking down under the sound, trying to silence it. The offices shatter and vanish into a void. The Hiss rush to fill it.

He feels Polaris rush in as well. _I don’t need you_ , he repeats. _Get out. Get out. Both of you. Get out of my head!_

The screeching gets louder. It’s deafening. 

Polaris and the Hiss crash together, and everything falls silent.

It’s the loudest silence Dylan has ever heard.

Somehow, he hears his sister in the silence. Her thoughts.

_I just want to sleep. Please._

_Jesse?_ he asks, trying to find her, trying to reach her. _Make it stop. Please make it stop. Don’t leave._

_Don’t leave._

The night air is exceptionally cold in the Ordinary Dump. The burnt slides are still smoldering in the trash and dirt at Dylan and Jesse’s feet. Trench has an iron grasp on Dylan’s wrist.

 _The slide projector. Is there more?_ Trench says. Dylan hears nothing, but he knows Trench is talking, somehow. _More slides? Where’s the projector? Show us the projector._

He and Jesse shake their heads.

It’s so overwhelmingly quiet. Dylan’s eyes flit upward, looking for the comfort of the night sky, but the stars are gone— the milky way replaced by a living nebula of red and blue, twisting and warping in the sky.

Trench’s grip tightens around his wrist, wrenching him away from Jesse.

_Where is the slide projector?_

Dylan yells, but makes no sound at all. Jesse watches him with wide eyes.

 _“Help me, Jesse_ ," he screams, silent. “ _Don’t let them take me. Don’t leave me.”_

Jesse tries to reach for him, to grab him, help him, whisk him to safety. 

Purge the Hiss.

But she can’t. She can’t control it, can’t change it.

 _“It’s not my dream_ ," she cries back. “ _I can’t do it.”_

Dylan sobs silently, trying to shake his arm free. Trench won’t let him go.

 _“You have to. You have to do it. I don’t think I can do it._ _Don’t let it take me.”_

_“You can. You can do it. I’m right here. I’m with you.”_

The nebula above twists and shimmers and flares.

_“I can’t. I’m scared. I’m not strong enough. You have to do it. Please do it.”_

Jesse watches it trying to take her brother away from her.

 _“You can. You’re stronger than them._ **_We’re_ ** _stronger.”_

Dylan swallows down his fear, his anxiety, ignoring his heart hammering in his ribcage, his panic screaming in his head. He looks back up at the alien sky, then twists to face Trench. To face the Hiss. Red and ugly, a sickness, a mold, a parasite, draining him, killing him, desperate.

“ ** _You want this to be true._** ”

 _“I’m here.”_ Jesse’s voice echoes in his head. _“_ _I’m here for you, I love you. You can do it.”_

Jesse watches, frozen in place at the dump, as her little brother spins around to face the Hiss and wrenches free. The sound comes back with a deafening _boom;_ screeches and screams and howls. She sees Polaris launch into the Hiss, through Dylan, past him. It’s so blindingly bright, and she blinks away the tears in her eyes, trying to see.

Jesse gasps, eyes snapping open, knees giving way under her. Polaris pulses calmly in her vision. The House hums quietly around her.

_Awake. I’m awake._

She finds her footing and stands, eyes darting around the room.

The Ordinary AWE sector. The dump. Lit by a humming set of generators and spotlights. The mobile lab wedged up against the wall. The stacks of compacted garbage looming overhead.

She can’t see Dylan.

“Dylan?” she asks, voice softer than she expects. She tries again, steeling herself, trying to conceal the panic in her voice. “Dylan? Where are you?”

She waits. She listens.

She can hear him crying.

“ _Dylan._ ” Jesse rushes forward, around the towering trash, past the skeletal car, toward where the hideout tunnel would be at home. Dylan is crouched inside, curled in on himself, holding his head, crying silently. Jesse drops to the ground, glancing around him anxiously for injuries.

“Jesse, it’s so loud. It’s too loud,” he sobs, breath hitching, searching her face. “I— I don’t know what to think, I don’t know what I want. There’s— there’s so many choices, but there’s no choices, there’s _nothing_ , I can’t leave but when… when I leave, what can I do? _Can_ I leave? I don’t know, I don’t know, it all bleeds together, I— I don’t know anymore. Did I dream it? Did it happen? Can it be both? I— I don’t know what’s me and what's Hiss. What if it’s _all_ been me what if I— Jesse, I— what if there’s no difference? It’s just— it’s so much easier, it’s _so much easier_ to lash out, but I want to, but I don’t, I _don’t,_ I’m just. I’m so angry, Jesse, and it hurts, it _hurts_ ,” he gasps, trying to catch his breath.

Jesse reaches out and takes one of his shaking hands, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m not— I— I’m not trying to trick you, I promise, I _promise_ , it’s just so loud, and I just want to— I want to rest, I— I want to be better. Jesse, I want to be better.”

Distantly in her thoughts, Jesse is struck by the realization she hasn’t hugged her brother since he woke up. Since he disappeared. Since Ordinary.

Jesse automatically reaches out for him, and Dylan lurches forward, folding into her embrace, burying his face in his sister’s shoulder. He clings to her, _so_ tightly, like he might disappear if he doesn’t hold on. Jesse hugs him tighter, in their hideout, in the dump.

_Around one constant, they revolve._


	18. Lucid Dreaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: brief mentions of self loathing (see end notes for more details).

Emily realizes, with casual curiosity and a great lack of fanfare, that her first ‘real’ mission is going to be trial by fire. Though to be fair, her entire work experience leading up to becoming Head of Research has been trial by fire. And all the time after that, as well.Trial by Hiss, really. And Darling is gone. Leaving her with more questions than answers. Even more than usual. A jumbled legacy she barely knows how to navigate. It’s anxiety inducing— but in the best way possible. Stressful, of course. Terrifying, sure. Important, absolutely. Tragic, undoubtedly. 

Exciting?

 _Extremely_.

It's unbridled investigation. A plunge into the grand, wonderful, unknown.

Arish, suited in ranger gear instead of his usual uniform, hesitates when he sees her follow after the squad as they leave Central Executive. Before he can say anything (though his worried expression says enough), Emily holds up a hand and makes her case.

“You need someone who understands how the Hiss moves, thinks, operates, and I know them inside and out,” she says, the rangers continuing on without them. “If you have a gap in knowledge, it could be deadly. I can be your intel. I know we have safe spots. I can hole up there. And if there’s anything to glean here that could shorten our lockdown—”

“Okay,” Arish says with a curt nod, turning to watch the rangers get further and further away. “But just. _Be careful_ , Pope, please. I don’t need anyone else I care about getting hurt or worse. Let’s go.” The two take off together after the mobilizing groups, Emily clutching her clipboard tight against her HRA.

Rangers spiral through the House ahead of her, deliberate and focused, leaving her half-jogging in the far back. She spends their time winding a path deeper and deeper into the House pondering ways HRAs could be used beyond protection. Large-scale HRAs protect the front of the House, Central Executive, Dimensional Research— what if they could be offensive, not defense? Their armor and weapons now were high tech (and classified), but what if they had more? What if people that well trained to handle AWEs and threats like the Hiss had something to near-match the power of what they faced? 

The closer they get to the NSC, the more brilliantly red everything becomes. Emily’s thoughts take a brief moment to be fascinated— how _do_ the Hiss affect the perception of light? Why red? Is it a warning sign, like an animal’s bright coloring? Would they even use the same color language as us? Are the soundwaves and lightwaves interacting? Is it something else entirely?— but the blinding, permeating, deepening red and distant sound of gunshots and explosions tears her out of her mind and back into the here and now.

She watches the rangers around her move with trained deftness, like everything is muscle memory, despite facing completely new and unknown challenges every day. Arish catches some of the security falling back and quickly relays new orders for them, picking up more information on what awaits them. Emily catches words like _overwhelmed_ and _swarm_ and _NSC_. Not great.

Awful, actually. Not beyond handling, but certainly a mark for Bureau history books. To have the frontlines be their own Bureau. Again. It felt like the battle had finally been won when Jesse purged the Hiss from the Astral plane, but it’s never over ‘till it’s truly over. If the Hiss gained access to Northmoor… well, it was detrimental when it corrupted Dylan. For the Hiss have a second parautilitarian? To draw on a power well like that?

 _Never a dull moment,_ Emily thinks to herself.

Arish tries not to remember the last time he donned a Ranger uniform. It’s unavoidable— there’s no way he’s headed into a firefight like this without it— but it certainly feels…. monumental. To be in it again. It doesn’t really feel… he doesn’t want to say ‘earned’, because he’s worn it before, and his new job has him covering bases for both Security and Operations. But it still feels odd. And he has no time to let himself think about it, because he’s about to head to maintenance and help organize countless squads and staff to take down the Hiss again.

He casts a glance to the back, making sure Emily is staying a reasonable distance away from the danger, before emerging out into one of the upper walkways in the NSC main room. The whole room echoes with gunfire, shouting, and the forever-haunting inhuman screeching of Hiss.

A Ranger Captain across the way, huddled against a column for cover, waves Arish down, and he breaks from his group to meet him.

“What’re we looking like?” Arish asks, crouching down, shouting over the din of the fight.

“Security all fell back or filled in for backup” the Captain shouts back, still difficult to hear despite being so close. “The good news is the Hiss seems preoccupied with breaching the NSC. The bad news is the Hiss—”

“Is preoccupied with breaching the NSC,” Arish finishes.

“Exactly. We’ve got an advantage, Rangers are all already in place surrounding the NSC, but we still need a few leaders. There’s a squad across from us on the upper level that could use you.”

Arish nods and takes off, taking in what views he can as he moves across walkways. He watches as a Hiss Elevated tumbles off the side of the NSC, collapsing onto another, rocking the room with another explosion.

 _Going great. It’s fine. We can handle it,_ he assures himself.

He comes around the curve to the other ranger squad and spots McBride. Arish catches himself before he grimaces, nodding a hello instead.

_…it’s fine. We can handle it._

McBride barely conceals his own glare.

“Arish,” he greets him. Arish bites his tongue, focusing on the task at hand, pushing everything else aside.

“I heard you guys need some extra support.”

“Anything helps,” another Ranger chimes in. Arish finds himself settled with a scoped rifle next to McBride. _Because of course,_ he thinks.

They fight side by side for a while, because it’s their job, and their own lives on the line, and Arish sees no point to try and argue anything when all that matters now is working together to protect the Bureau and its staff.

McBride tests the waters first, between reloading and lining up a shot.

“Wish we had Marshall here.”

“Yeah?” Arish asks, tone even. “Me too. She always had the strategy down.”

McBride casts him a sideways look.

“You think you don’t?”

“I think I’m gonna miss whatever wisdom the old blood in the Bureau had to pass down,” he answers, sending a Hiss spiraling out of the air with a few shots.

“Yet you keep talking to the Faden kid.”

There it is. Arish can’t help but groan this time.

“Now is _not_ the time, Ranger.”

“Seems relevant,” McBride replies casually. “Plenty of his kind in here.” 

Arish doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“Wonder where his sister is too,” he adds. “What good is a Director not on the front lines? We could use that service weapon of hers. And she’s off doing what?”

Arish straightens, picking off more Hiss, until he finds himself needing to reload again.

“You ever see Trench in action?”

McBride doesn’t answer.

“You ever personally see Trench in action, on the front lines?” he repeats.

“No.”

“Or a large scale attack like this, inside the Bureau. On lockdown. You ever face that before? I could use some tips if you have.”

“No.” McBride’s answer is softer this time.

“Okay,” Arish replies calmly. “One more then. Maybe you have the answer. You care about everyone in the Bureau, right? That’s why you want to protect it. You want everyone here to be safe. Why you’re doubting things and staying on alert.”

“Yes.”

“So you’d do the same thing, try and protect the Bureau and do what’s best for everyone, if you found out one of your squadmates had been held captive here for 17 years in a cell?”

A rocket whizzes past, overshot, and smashes into the cement overhang a ways above them, and they both duck down. Arish meets McBride’s eyes.

“That’s what you want, right?” Arish prompts. “More honesty from departments. Working to protect everyone.”

He can’t find any answer. None that doesn’t agree with him.

“Right.”

“So tell me how conspiracy and attacking the Director’s family helps with that?” Arish asks, popping back up, readjusting his aim. McBride shifts, moving his gun to his other shoulder, fixing his scope. The silence stretches for a moment.

“I suppose you're right.”

“Damn right I am,” Arish replies. “So let’s finish this out. Right?”

“Right.”

Emily watches with acute fascination as Hiss swarm the NSC in droves. It’s almost painful to look at, with the mix of red and gunfire and occasional explosion of a rocket or a Hiss or something else entirely. But all she can do is watch and mentally catalogue all she sees, quietly cursing the fact that she doesn’t have a camera.

She wonders where Jesse is, and if she’s alright.

She wonders if the increased presence of HRAs here weakens the Hiss’ attack at all.

She wonders if she can expand on Darling’s research and design to bring more utility and functionality to them.

She wonders why Darling kept it all secret from her, leaving her to pick up the puzzle pieces and ethical disasters now that he’s gone.

It’s not that she doesn’t want this job. It’s what she’s always wanted. She couldn’t be more excited. But she wants to do it right. Darling always encouraged her to. But… why keep her away? Did he think she wasn’t ready? Was he trying to protect her? Which makes her angry. Was he ashamed?

_Maybe he’ll call Jesse again. I have so many questions._

Another explosion rocks the air in front of her, and she hears a chorus of Rangers cheering down below as a cluster of Hiss dissipate into nothing, before more swarm in to take their place.

And then it stops.

The Rangers don’t, still pushing forward, the barrage to clear room for repair crews continuing on. But Emily notices the change in the Hiss. They all pause, hovering, standing, twitching, listening, for only a second.

For a moment, she hopes it's over. That Jesse found what she was looking for.

Then they redouble the effort, more aggressive than before. They abandon the Rangers entirely, all focused on the NSC itself, throwing themselves into it, firing on it, tanking every hit the Rangers throw at them until they crumble and vanish. The NSC creaks and groans, and Emily briefly fears the idea of it cracking open, and a new chaos enveloping the House.

Then the Hiss peel away, detaching themselves from the NSC, speeding for any exit they can find. She watches them vanish into maintenance ducts, scrambling for vents and pipes, as Rangers pick them off. Emily rushes forward to the edge of the railing to peer down below, ignoring the warnings some Rangers call to her. Even the Hiss bound to use their feet and not levitate are making a mad dash for the doors, collapsing as Rangers land their shots. 

A retreat. They’re retreating. Emily takes mental note, a grin spreading across her face. Plenty of Hiss get away, but the focused attack of all the Rangers takes a large chunk out of their numbers.

It’s not long before the ringing gunfire in her ears is replaced by cheering.

“Where’d they go? Why give up?” a Ranger nearby questions.

“Who the hell cares?” another answers.

Emily feels a newfound hope blossom in her chest— a vision of victory. _We’re so close._

It takes her a moment, in all the noise, to register the sound of the intercom nearby, all static and garbled voice. She tears herself away from the celebration, facing back toward the door, finding the active intercom and pressing the _talk_ button.

“Yes? Hello?” she leans in, shouting over the noise around her.

“Emily?” the voice on the other end asks. _Jesse_. The intercom makes her voice sound warbled. Or— maybe she’s just tired. “Where— why are you in Maintenance? What is all that? Are you okay?” Emily laughs.

“I’m fine. We’re fine,” she answers, and it feels like a sigh of relief. “I think we just won something big,” she adds.

“I think we did too,” Jesse answers, and Emily can hear she’s smiling, even though she sounds exhausted.

“Are you alright? Where are you? What happened?” Emily replies, suddenly overwhelmed with curiosity and concern. There’s a longer pause this time, before her response.

“I’m fine,” Jesse finally answers. “Dylan’s with me too. We’re both okay. We just… I need to talk to you about it afterward. When we all get back. It’s good.”

“Be careful, both of you.”

“We will.”

Emily waits for any other reply, but none comes, and she turns back to the celebration around her, and can only hope that whatever Jesse and Dylan just did feels as joyous as this does.

* * *

There’s a party that night, of sorts, in Central Executive, though most of the participants in the actual battle have all found chairs and cots and beds and shelters to pass out in. The party stretches out into Communications, making ample use of the cafeteria space. Research and Executive staff are all cheering each other, with the few Security and Rangers still on shift standing guard, using whatever alcohol and cake and rations they could scrounge up and spare. Everyone’s abandoned their work for the night, and no one’s complaining, because everyone can see the end of the lockdown in sight. The Hiss are still there, yes, but their numbers are dwindling low, and the failed attack on the NSC is just further proof that its presence in the House is weakening. Morale could certainly use a party, too. It’s all around a perfect reason to celebrate.

Emily steps away from it all, trying to escape some of the chaos. Jesse and Dylan never turned up, though she really didn’t expect them to— loud parties don’t seem to be either of their style. They're not really Emily’s thing, either. But her excuse for dipping away from the celebrations is a solid one: she wants to know how Jesse is.

Emily can still hear everyone despite the closed doors and distance as she approaches Jesse’s office. She can’t help but smile at the sound— something so foreign in the bureaucratic building. She reaches the double doors and knocks lightly with one knuckle, listening for any response.

“Jesse?” she asks. “If you’re ready to talk, I’ve got a report started.” Emily begins gently pushing the door open. “Of course, it can wait—” she continues, but stops when she sees Jesse’s chair empty.

She pushes the door open further.

“Hello?” Emily asks, stepping into the office, glancing down the hall toward the Hotline. _Must be somewhere else. But where?_ Emily thinks, turning on her heel, then blinks in surprise at the sight in front of her.

Jesse is sat up asleep on the couch, head resting against a pillow pressed up to the wall. Dylan is sat next to her, fast asleep as well, head lulled against his sister’s shoulder.

Emily covers her mouth, suddenly aware of how loud she was being, watching anxiously to see if either of them stirs. But neither does, and she suddenly feels self conscious for watching, but can’t help the smile spreading across her face at the sight.

 _Clearly their talk went well,_ Emily thinks, turning to leave. _The report can wait._

It’s not till she carefully shuts the door behind her that she truly feels the exhaustion set into her bones. _I guess I can wait to do the report too,_ she thinks, yawning, and shuffles off to find her own place to get some rest.

* * *

  
  
  


**DYLAN FADEN HISS EVALUATION**

  
  


**\-- CONFIDENTIAL --**

  
  


**COMPILED BY: EMILY POPE, HEAD OF RESEARCH**

**BY ORDER OF: DIRECTOR JESSE FADEN**

SUMMARY: 

Our understanding of the Hiss, though incomplete, is growing in scope. Being a resonance-based lifeform, testing and experimentation is currently making headway in exploring whether the Hiss is capable of disturbing or changing the hosts it takes via sound waves and vibrations. Though impossible to fully test and currently incomplete, testing has at least proven the fact that the Hiss can ‘echo’. 

Interviews with Dylan Faden and Director Jesse Faden have revealed the fact that the Hiss attempts to make its hosts suitable to its existence, whether a Hiss agent or a more powerful parautilitarian. Interestingly, the Fadens have proven that to some degree, powerful hosts can fight to reject the Hiss presence, even after prolonged exposure. Whether this is solely a parautiliatrain ability or tied to Hedron is unknown, though late Director Trench may be proof of the latter. 

Dylan seems to now be free of the Hiss presence, though questioning and testing imply that Dylan may still be dealing with the ‘echo’ the Hiss left. _Current observations, though only based on interviews and unable to truly capture the metaphysical nature of his current status, seem to suggest Dylan’s condition now is not unlike the end of a virus— his parautilitarian and/or Hedron ‘immune system’ still needs time to fully purge the leftover ripples of the resonance…_

* * *

No matter how many times Dylan finds himself navigating a dream again, he’s always struck by how _different_ it is when the Hiss is weak. The lack of its influence, the lack of strength in the push and pull. It’s so much clearer than before. When the quiet, drumming pain of Hiss control was smothered by the Hiss rushing to satiate him, satisfy him, lock him somewhere that felt good and too fuzzy to think or fight back. To blind him— redact what it didn’t want him to think about. His own dreams are quieter. Familiar. Neither right nor wrong. Just his.

This one is different. It feels off. Shifted.

His panic flares first.

 _Is the Hiss back for me?_ he thinks. _It can’t come in. I don’t want it. I won’t let it._

His own reassurances respond back to him. _It’s an echo. It’s not here. It’s just leftovers. The tail end. Vapor. A ghost._

Right.

Right. He needs to remember that. He’s had dreams like this before. Repeats of things the Hiss tried to show him. Remnants of it still scrambling for some sort of hold. But it’s just mist. Whispers. Without the foothold— without Dylan clinging to it— it has no place here, no space, no home. It’s his dream. The Hiss means nothing. He can shut it up. It doesn’t control him anymore. It’s not leeching off of him anymore. Its attempts to plead him back into submission don’t work. He knows now. He doesn’t want it. It's poison. 

He’s standing in the Director’s Office. His sister’s. Always the Director’s Office. 

“Find something new. This is boring,” he complains, as if the echo can hear him. “Or just let me sleep for once.” Something hisses back at him— weak, bitter, defiant. It’s familiar for several reasons. 

He can feel something else, too. Another player in the dream. Weak and distant. The Hiss doesn’t like it.

_Polaris._

He figured this was coming. That she’d show up again. He and Jesse had talked about it together, because she’s the only one who gets it, and she’s the only one he feels comfortable enough to confide in.

Ever since the dream they had together, it had been different. But good. Because they understood each other more. And the Hiss was gone. Mostly.

Dylan never knew Jesse had also pushed Polaris out before. They knew she would want to help push the Hiss out of Dylan totally. Jesse was sure Polaris wouldn’t bother him until he was ready, but Dylan still felt the bitter taste of her appearances in his P6 cell on the back of his tongue. He wasn’t sure if he was ready. Or if he ever would be. To ever let her back in.

Jesse says that’s okay. But Polaris still might reach out soon to try and help him. So he’d been looking for her, trying to get ready.

He can feel the Hedron resonance outside the office doors. 

_At least she’s waiting for me._

Nothing in the room threatens or prompts him to move. If he wanted, he could just sit in the big chair and stay there. Contemplate it all. Out of habit, if nothing else, he steps out the doors into the offices ahead.

His heart freezes as he grinds to a halt on the threshold.

Casper Darling looks up from a bench seat in the hall.

For a painful few seconds, nothing happens.

It’s only when Dylan feels the edges of Hedron pricking at his consciousness that he finally speaks.

“You.”

Darling barely manages to hazard a smile.

“ _You._ ” Dylan bristles, the room around them darkening. He can hear the whispering echo of the Hiss in the distance. Darling’s expression drops into something more serious.

“Dylan, wait—”

“You never learn anything, do you? You don’t even pay attention. You don’t listen.” A single laugh escapes him as he comes to a new revelation. “Is that why you chose him? You’re the same thing, anyway.” 

Darling blinks in confusion.

“Do— do you—”

“Shut up. If you spent a single _second_ thinking of someone else you would’ve known I _hate_ Casper, and I celebrate his death whenever I accidentally think of him. So _pick. A different. Form._ ”

The silence stretches out like a tensed cord ready to snap. Dylan digs his fingernails into his palms, but feels no feedback from the dream. He waits for an answer. Darling stands there, hesitating.

“You think I’m— what do you call her?” he asks rhetorically, then answers himself, remembering. “Polaris! You think I’m Polaris, don’t you?”

Dylan stops suddenly.

_What?_

Words don’t come to him. Thoughts don’t come to him either. It’s all blankness. 

_What?_

Somewhere he registers that Polaris wouldn’t speak this way. That she doesn’t speak at all— he just discerns her, sometimes. Feels the implications, gleans the meaning. This is… is this… who…?

How?

“Are you a ghost?”

“In a really broad sense, perhaps, but the complexities are— I… sure.” He brightens, a grin spreading across his face. “I’m Casper! The fri—”

“I _will_ kill you,” Dylan cuts him off. “Whatever you are.”

Darling sighs, hanging his head.

“There’s— there’s nothing I can say, really,” he pulls his hands up to his chest, clasping them together.

Dylan doesn’t answer. He just watches, wide eyed.

“I should’ve…” Darling starts, but trails. He knows it’s too late to change anything in the past, no matter how badly he wants to. No response seems sound, no words seem right.

“How?” Dylan asks softly. Darling’s eyes flick upward. “How… how could you? How could you do any of this to me? How—”

“I’m sorry.”

“Of course you are,” Dylan spits. “ _Of course._ It’s the _LEAST_ you can do. Instead of taking responsibility, instead of _facing me_.” Dylan seethes. He’s not ready for this. He’s much happier when Darling is just gone. It’s easier.

The remnant Hiss wisps around him, tugging at him, prodding him. It hates… it hates Hedron. It wants Dylan to hate Hedron too. _Aren’t they the same thing?_

 _I don’t know. I don’t care. Go away. I’m done with you,_ he thinks. To the Hiss. To Darling. Whichever. Both.

Darling drums his fingers against his arm, searching for the words to say.

“I’m— I’m proud of you, Dylan.”

“ _No_. No,” Dylan snaps, trying to breathe. “I’m not. I'm not ready for this. I'm done. No more of this.” _Where are you? Get it all out. I’m asking you to for once. Come get rid of it. Come find me. This is the only time I’m asking._

“Dylan, wait—” Darling starts, but the dream is overwhelmed with Polaris’ presence, and Dylan lets her sweep through, and feels the Hiss compress into absolute silence. As soon as it's gone, Polaris leaves. Dylan’s dream is wonderfully quiet.

He dozes into a natural, restful sleep, for the first time in a long time.

Polaris meets him when awakes in his room. Not in a dream, like he assumed. Her arrival is gradual. Tentative. She hovers gently in his awareness. No worming in, no invading, no seizing control of him. 

Nothing like the Hiss. Nothing like when she was desperate to get to him. 

She’s asking permission.

“I still don’t trust you,” he tells her. “I’m not sure I forgive you.”

She shimmers slowly— a transparent kaleidoscope in his vision. She says nothing; doesn’t use words, makes no sound. But Dylan understands her clear as crystal.

 _I understand_ , she implies. It gives him some peace, in the bitterness. Some comfort. For the first time in a long time, she’s comfort. For the first time since Ordinary.

When the Hiss took him, it felt like burning. Like a consuming fire. Powerful, but dangerous and damaging. Destructive. Detrimental.

In Ordinary, when they found Polaris, it felt like...new. Right. Rebirth.

 _“_ You don’t have to leave. But you can’t come in. I get to make the rules. I get to say.”

She flickers an affirmative. _Of course._ _I understand._

“I don’t understand,” he answers, still turning it over in his head, still fighting back long-fermented bitterness and disappointment. “I don’t understand any of it. But you can stay. I know it’s different. But you can stay. For now.”

The fractals fold in his vision, a far cry from the false comfort of the Hiss’ words. His emotions still flare, but there’s an underlying calm. Something paradoxical pushing against it all. 

It’s not sickness, it’s not parasitic, it’s not confusion. It’s clarity. 

She is clarity. 

She doesn’t deny his frustrations and confusions. But she doesn’t lead him further into that spiral. She’s a peace. A calm despite the storm. She’s an anchor. She’s a reminder. She’s there when he needs her. A home. 

A guiding star.

_Grow brighter._

_Around one constant, they revolve._

* * *

_While Dylan is fully free of the Hiss and completely recovered, he still has the metaphysical ‘scars’ of the infection. It is nothing detrimental, and easily likened to our physical health. Many of us have scars or sore muscles from past injuries or illnesses, and Dylan’s is no different. Any attempt by any staff to try and investigate otherwise is to always be denied. Besides being a violation of the Ash Act, any claim of wanting to ‘dissect’ Dylan is abhorrent and will not be tolerated. The testing and observations have been done in tandem with Dylan, and the work is complete and verified._

_Curiously, Dylan’s connection to the Hedron resonance is not as strong as Director Faden’s. Though I have little to no previous data to compare to, I hypothesize Dylan’s connection to Polaris was once much stronger. It may be that, like his experience with the Hiss resonance (as well as being based on recorded interviews and conversations), Dylan has the ability to reject or allow Polaris’ presence…_

* * *

Emily is not expecting Dylan’s approach. It’s late, and she’s… Research. Not Arish. Not Jesse. She smiles anyway, surprised but happy to see he’s at least willing to engage with her. Happy at the thought that he’s doing better. That he and Jesse are alright.

She’s sitting at her current makeshift desk in an office in Central Research, carefully organizing her things. Dylan stands halfway inside, heels on the cold cement of the main hall, toes on the carpet of her office, picking at his sleeves as his arms lay limp at his sides. She waits for him to speak up, but he just watches her before glancing around her office, so she resets her expectations and tries again.

“Hi Dylan,” she smiles, and he fixes his gaze back on her. She starts to ask how he’s feeling, but she knows he’s probably sick of that and it won’t accomplish anything, so she mouths the start of the words and stops, smiling again and gesturing out with an open palm.

Dylan regards her for a moment. Is he… hesitant? Nervous?

“You want to run tests, right?” he asks suddenly. “The Hiss is gone. You can check. I’m ready.”

Oh. _Oh!_

“Of course. Only if you want to, obviously, I mean, if you’re ready—”

“I am.”

Emily fumbles, not expecting this, excited, but unsure how to continue, letting her hands drop against her thighs.

“Alright,” she says finally. “Well… follow me!” 

She smiles again. Dylan doesn’t. But he follows her, walking just out of step with her.

She takes special care to consider how Dylan in her testing. She was already careful with Jesse, and she doesn’t want to seem like she’s treating Dylan any differently, but she knows— rather, she can’t know— what ‘testing’ _used_ to mean for Dylan. So she walks him through what she does as she does it. It’s not hard for her. She likes to talk about it. Occasionally she asks a question, and her talking is cut with a two or three word answer from Dylan. He never protests, sitting in a comfortable chair in one of the labs near medical. Most of it is all signal based testing and question based anyway— nothing close to a doctor’s appointment. She hopes, at least, that it doesn’t feel like that. But he never protests or interrupts her, so she continues, jotting down notes and explaining her process.

“Interesting,” she remarks reflexively, checking the readout of a scan she just retrieved from the printer. “Nothing bad,” she adds, realizing how vague that was and how possibly unnerving it would be to hear a scientist say ‘interesting’ about your brain scans.

Dylan gives her a questioning look.

“I’m just trying to understand the scans. I’ve studied them before, and it’s not my area of expertise, but compared to your previous ones… things aren’t bad or wrong, they’re just…” She struggles to find layman’s terms. “Different?” she tries.

“I get it,” Dylan says flatly. “You break a bone, it has to heal, you get a cut, it leaves a scar.”

“That’s… an excellent way of putting it.”

“It’s my brain. I get it.”

Emily nods. Of course. It’s interesting, how Jesse and Dylan seem to just _get_ things. Having an almost instinct for understanding the paranatural. Is it them? Familial? Polaris-based? A parautiliatrian ability?

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she starts, marking notes on the scan. “Jesse talked about going to the dump with me— what made you feel the… the _pull_ to go there? Was it Polaris’ doing?”

Dylan doesn’t answer at first, watching her scratch tallies and circles on the scan. She leaves him the silence to answer, if he wants.

“I don’t know. I just felt it. Jesse did too.”

“Now, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Emily adds, clearly eager to ask her next question and hoping for an answer anyway. “But… did you feel any Hiss influence to go to the Dump? Did… did it suggest it, or…?” She trails, realizing this might be too sketchy of territory for her to delve into.

Dylan curls his fingers around the edge of the chair. Truth be told, he doesn’t know himself. He hadn’t paid attention before as to _why_ he felt such a strong pull. He didn’t want to think about it. If it was Hiss. Or him. Some scheme he fell for. But Jesse had felt it too. Maybe Polaris knew what would happen there. That it would… that it would be good. 

But he doesn’t know. He isn’t sure. And what kind of things would others assume based on his answers?

“I’m not answering these questions,” he says defensively.

“Alright,” Emily replies calmly, glancing up from her work. “I didn’t mean to overstep. Thank you anyway.”

Dylan twitches his shoulders into a shrug. Emily sets the scan down and instinctively places a hand on the side of his shoulder, and Dylan furrows his brow in confusion.

“I’m just glad you and Jesse are alright,” she says, then realizes suddenly what she’s done, and quickly searches his face for a sign that that was okay. 

She can’t tell anything at all in his expression. There’s no anger or discomfort, at least. Defensiveness? Confusion? She pulls her hand back and tries to smile warmly, hoping it smooths everything over, and buries herself back in some of her notes.

“It's odd,” she continues, leaving that moment behind. “Your levels of Hedron resonance, of Polaris… you are Hiss free, like you said, even the byproduct echo is gone, but— your levels of Hedron are much lower than Jesse’s are.”

He isn’t shocked. Of course they aren’t. She tentatively waits to see if he has anything to elaborate on that, but he just watches her, waiting.

“Well,” she says finally, tucking the papers under an arm. “I’m thrilled to pronounce you totally, entirely, and completely free of the Hiss. Congratulations!”

Dylan is still watching her, curiously, cautiously. For a moment, she swears she catches a hint of a smile on Dylan’s face. A glint in his eye. But she can’t be sure. 

“Thanks,” he says finally.

“Here’s hoping we can say the same for the Bureau next.”

* * *

_...Of course, with the unique nature of the Bureau’s current circumstances considered, we must make an effort to ensure both the humane and human treatment of Dylan from all staff, as well as taking the steps to make sure the tragedy of the Prime Candidate Program does not happen again. It will take time, and trial and error, but I am confident in the Bureau as a whole under the guidance of Director Faden and fellow like-minded staff to forge a better, brighter path forward as we continue to delve into the world of the Paranatural…_

* * *

“Okay,” Arish says as he steps into Dylan’s room, which is looking more and more like a _room_ and not an office every day. Dylan is stretched out on a couch that they ‘borrowed’ from a sector and moved in together a week or two ago. “I managed to find something in your size. It’s uh, just a white crew neck and some black sweats. Stuff new recruits wear during physical training. But I promise you they’re new.”

Dylan slowly hauls himself upward and holds a hand out awaiting his newest freedom— ditching the Prime Candidate clothes. Arish tosses the set to him, and Dylan catches the shirt, letting the sweats bounce off his hand and crumple to the floor.

“Sorry we don’t have more options for you yet. Can’t really go shopping, unfortunately,” Arish jokes.

“It’s better than what I have,” Dylan replies flatly. Arish is coming to learn that that is Dylan’s version of _thank you_.

“No problem.”

Dylan scoops the sweats back up off the ground, dropping them on the couch beside him and unfolding the shirt to check it over. Arish is still standing a few feet away, tapping his foot. Dylan casts him a glance, noticing now that Arish has a file in his hand. Arish smiles sheepishly.

“This is for you too. It’s, uh… it’s from a sector that lost funding and got cut off for… various reasons. But uh,” Arish clears his throat, then holds the file out. “It might be kinda heavy, but I think it’s important you see it. We had it declassified, to the best of our ability, considering most of the staff is… gone. You don’t have to read it now. But I needed to make sure it got to you.”

Dylan glances down to the file, then Arish, and the file again. He sets the shirt aside and carefully takes the folder. He opens it, and a set of FBC official papers spill into his lap. He skims the title of the first—

**OFFICIAL FINDINGS REPORT. RE: THE PRIME CANDIDATE PROGRAM**

Dylan swallows, looking away, shutting the file.

“...you read these too?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Arish answers, moving to sit in the empty spot next to Dylan. “I did.”

Dylan takes a deep breath, then flips it open once more, carefully picking up the first paper.

It’s hard to not let any tears fall, as he reads it. Official FBC words, validating him. Defending him. Words that would’ve protected him. Words that never made it further than this document, until now.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tears hit the paper. Arish slings a careful arm around his shoulder. Dylan draws in a rattly breath and wipes his face with his sleeve.

He opens his mouth to say something, but finds nothing, and a sob escapes instead. Arish pulls him closer, and Dylan lets him.

The papers are closure he never knew he needed. Arish is the support he never expected to have.

It hurts. But it’s healing.

* * *

Things still ache. Some wounds are still fresh for Dylan, raw and sensitive. Darling is still a subject he avoids, as do others. Some staff avoid him actively. He’s fine with that. Some staff he never wants to see again. Some things he doesn’t even realize were an ache for him, until it’s already fresh and stinging and hurting again, and he has to leave before it overwhelms him.

It takes a lot of time.

It’s going to take a lot of time.

There’s official notes somewhere, highly classified, about Dylan’s ‘on record’ explanation for stealing and destroying Darling’s research. It’s vague and heavily redacted, but it’s satisfactory, for the Bureau.

It’s only with Jesse that he confides the truth, sitting together in the Quarry, making up for lost time where they can, between her duties, between his adjustments, waiting for the lockdown to finally lift. They catch up on all of it— their days, their weeks, the years past. 

She asks during one of the weeks where the paperwork is made ‘official’. He knows this is off the record. She’s his sister first, Director second.

It’s a welcome relief.

He explains that he doesn’t know why he did it. Not because he isn’t sure of his motive— he just isn’t sure _which_ motive it was. He wanted it gone to hurt Darling. He knew it made no sense. Darling is gone. (He omits the fact that he might’ve seen Darling in a dream. He’s not ready to think about that). That was the problem— Darling was gone. And he was mad. Is mad. It felt close enough to getting revenge. And it hurt the FBC, too. Even though it hurt his chances of leaving the House sooner. Hurt _all_ their chances. He didn’t really mind that. Not then. (He does now). The Hiss wanted it gone so badly, too. It pushed him, agreed with him, honored him, encouraged him. Empty reassurance.

But he knew it was wrong. He didn’t want to do it for either reason. He shouldn’t. It hurt. It made no sense. But he wanted to do it _so badly_. Like it would scratch an itch and bring relief. Like it would satisfy him. 

It didn’t.

But now is better. Not perfect. But better. He’s feeling… better than he did.

His sister sits and listens, attentive, taking it all in. She doesn’t judge him or take notes or put any of it on record. She just leans over so her shoulder touches his and gives him a soft smile. _I understand_.

A smile ghosts across Dylan’s face, and he turns to the not-sky to watch the foreign stars again. Jesse is here. His sister. Finally. And she gets it, somewhat. Better than anyone else could. And he can confide in her. The Director, of all people. She keeps his secrets for him, like this one. Even from the Board.

Things are different. So different. Nothing like how he ever imagined it. Nothing like how he thought it should go. Nothing like what the Hiss wanted. 

But it’s good. It’s better.

“What do you want to do first?” she asks, breaking the comfortable silence. “When we finally all get to leave. I’m thinking… a burger. A big one. Like, super greasy. With hot fries.”

Dylan scoffs— something between a laugh and an eye roll— but then cocks his head to the side.

“That does sound good. Now I want one.”

“My bad,” Jesse laughs. Oh, how she missed this.

Dylan peers down from their perch on one of the Quarry ledges, pressing his palms into the rock.

“I… I don’t know, really. I want out, obviously. But. I… I’m 27 now,” he says finally, carefully, like it's the first time he's realized his own age.

“...and?” Jesse asks, trying to follow his train of thought.

“The last time I was outside the Bureau, I was 10. What if outside is… overwhelming? Will the Bureau even let me out? Where will I go? I don’t have… we don’t have _home_.”

Ah.

Jesse had thought about it some, in the spare moments she had to just sit and breathe and think in all the chaos. She was always on the move before, searching out information, stealing rides where she could to get across the country, hoping she was getting closer. And now she was here. But she couldn’t just live in her office.

“I guess… we’ll figure that out together. Of course you can leave, when the time comes. We all will. And I’ll be with you.”

Dylan nods. It’s nice. It feels right. Even when things are uncertain, he can have Jesse there. He’s not alone.

“I need to find a place to stay too, so. You can crash my place. Or get your own. Either one.” Jesse stares up past the stars, pondering another idea. “Maybe we could go _home_ home. Take a break. Visit Ordinary.” Dylan shoots her a confused look.

“Is it… it’s still there?”

“Yeah,” Jesse says, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “It’s a ghost town now. The FBC keeps people out of it. They tried to restart the place, have new people move in, but I guess it didn’t work out. So it’s just… same old Ordinary. Sans the dump. Of course.”

Dylan snorts and rolls his eyes.

“The whole dump…” he trails, still baffled Darling would even have it moved here, so hellbent on finding more slides, more knowledge, _more_. “I’d like that. I think. To go back.”

“It’s a plan, then,” she answers, turning to look at him. “A vacation, when the lockdown lifts. To home.”

 _To home,_ Dylan thinks.

* * *

Dylan has his back pressed against the wall in the upper furnace alcove, soaking in the warmth, when he first meets Ahti. In person, that is.

It’s one of his favorite places to get some solace. The fire, at this distance, is comfortable instead of scorching. No one can reach the alcove without walking in where he can see him. No surprises. No one bothers him, few staff think to check for him there. It’s just him, where he wants to be, enjoying the silence. He lets his eyes rest a moment, breathing deep.

“Ah, _jo alkaa Lyyti kirjoittaa_ ,” a voice says behind him. Dylan jumps, scrambling to his feet. The voice laughs, and Dylan turns to find a janitor standing behind him, shaking his head and smiling, leaning on a broom.

“How did…” Dylan mumbles, then squints curiously. “Do I… I know you?”

“Mmm,” the Janitor hums, tapping his nose. “I am on vacation. Forgot something, but now, I go again,” he replies. Dylan… does not follow.

“You were… in a dream. My dreams.”

The Janitor looks away, scanning the ceiling, mumbling to himself. It’s a language Dylan doesn’t recognize.

“I… don’t understand. Sorry.”

“Another assistant,” the Janitor answers, nodding to himself, like it’s satisfactory. “You and your sister, yes.” Dylan… still does not follow. But at the same time, he feels he does, on some level. Like he’s supposed to talk to the Janitor. He just exudes… a calm.

“Jesse? Jesse’s a janitor’s assistant?”

“You will do a fine job. I will let her know you are hired,” the Janitor says with some finality. “A good worker. Understanding.” He claps a hand on Dylan’s shoulder and gives him a reassuring shake.

“Okay,” Dylan answers, because he isn’t sure there’s any other kind of answer. “...did you… help me? Somehow?”

The janitor just looks at him, a smile in his eyes.

“Thank you,” Dylan says softly, looking away. The Janitor hums again, letting his hand drop back to the broom.

“I will tell your sister,” he says again. “Two Janitor’s assistants. For while I am on vacation.” He turns and heads for a set of stairs that Dylan swears weren’t there before. “Careful around the furnace,” the man adds as he vanishes down the stairs. He leaves Dylan standing in the same spot, wondering what on earth just happened.

But the conversation leaves him feeling good. Like a bookend, or a period at the end of a sentence. Like it was closure, of some kind. For something.

He gives up on trying to wonder how the House works, and slides back down to sit on the floor, squinting against the heat of the furnace, soaking in the warmth again.

(He thinks to turn and look for the stairs as he’s leaving, and finds them gone.)

* * *

 _… It will take time for both Dylan and the Bureau to adjust. We’re in a new situation the FBC has never been in before, with new leadership and changing rules and understanding. But our mission has always been to adapt to the unknown. It is of my belief that Dylan Faden is on the same path we are_ — _with good support and understanding, to recovering and growing even further as we move to clear the lockdown._

_Refer to file █████ for a complete report._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Dylan briefly mentions being fine if he got hurt.
> 
> Author's note: WOO okay. That was a long one! I really hope the like... 'montage' sort of thing going on to show some passage of time worked ;o; ;u; akjhakjdfh I'm posting this at midnight and it has not been beta read at all, so apologies for any confusion or mistakes I might've missed during my proofreading. I'll fix anything that needs fixing come tomorrow morning kjshdkjfh
> 
> I also apologize if I got any Finnish wrong! I'm using a wikitionary database of idioms, and I do not trust the internet to be accurate, but googling did not help much.
> 
> Also a huge thank you to my friend Alexa, who provided me with the "Casper the Friendly Ghost" joke, which still has me cracking up kjsdhsfkjsdf
> 
> One more to go 👀


	19. Home

Working the morning shift in a podunk gas station that mostly only serves fishermen and hunters at 4 AM is not the most mentally stimulating job. But it pays! And employees get free food. Which is about the only two positives the cashier can think of, hunched over with her elbow on the counter, face in hand, phone in the other. She technically isn’t _supposed_ to be on her phone while on the clock, but every straggling hunter and fishermen and johnny-come-lately had already swept through the store, so she’s sure there’s nothing to worry about and little to look forward to outside of the odd hiker stopping in.

She barely registers the chime of the door as two new customers came in.

“Welcome,” she mumbles out of habit.

“Hi,” the woman responds with a smile. The cashier’s head jerks up from her phone, hastily shoving it back under the counter.

“Welcome!” she panics and repeats herself, _almost_ feeling guilty for being caught slacking off. Almost. 

The woman cocks her head a little and smiles, disappearing down an aisle, the other customer following after her. 

_Of course. The minute I start to relax, people show up._

She shoots a glance out the automatic doors and spots a lone, old, SUV parked at one of the pumps, then looks back to her new patrons. The woman is all red hair and black clothes, complete with leather jacket, and making a beeline for their wall of drinks. She stretches as she walks, reaching her arms up, and the cashier spots the butt of a gun tucked in a holster in her waistband. Good to know. The other— a guy in a blue flannel and dark sweatpants— is shuffling down one of the aisles, slowly looking at everything, picking blindly at the buttons on the corner of his shirt. The cashier not-so-subtly attempts to watch the two, out of nothing but pure curiosity and entertainment. Who are these two anyway? Neither of them are dressed for hunting, hiking, or fishing. _Undercover cops?_ She wonders. _Maybe the lady. Not the other guy._

“You wanted water, right?” the woman asks, heading back down the aisle, bottle in hand. The man doesn’t respond. At first the cashier assumes he’s still picking something out, or didn’t hear his friend, but he doesn’t even acknowledge her. “Dylan?” the woman asks, quieter this time.

The man— Dylan— stands unmoving. The cashier wonders with a twinge of anxiety if everything’s okay, letting her hand hover over her phone, just in case she needs to call for help. But the woman in the leather jacket seems unworried. So everything is probably okay. 

Dylan blinks suddenly and looks around, like he just woke up. He picks at his sleeve again and says something the cashier can’t make out (despite straining to and leaning ever-so-slightly over the counter). The two talk quietly for a while, until she can finally pick out pieces of the conversation again.

“Did you find what you want?”

“There’s no Butterfingers,” Dylan replies. The woman raises an eyebrow and points at the shelf. “Not those ones. The little round ones. In a bag.”

“What?” the woman replies. “Oh, wait. I remember those. They stopped making them a long time ago.”

“Wow,” he sighs, grabbing a few different things off the shelf. “Did they just discontinue all my favorite things while I was out?”

 _Okay. He’s_ definitely _not a cop._

He grabs a few more things, but hesitates reaching for a bag of chips.

“I— is it okay if I get—”

“Yes,” the woman answers, smiling and shaking her head. “No limits. Get what you want.”

_Who are these two?_

The cashier scrambles to think of a way to get more information from them. Make small talk to ask where they’re headed, see if she recognizes the name on the card they pay with— anything she could use to tell a story to her friends after work. But the two are already headed to the counter, and she can’t think of anything good to say or which of them to ask, and her customer service script kicks in before she can say anything else.

“You guys find everything alright?” she asks.

Dylan makes a face, but looks around the store instead of answering. The woman smiles slightly.

“Yeah, thanks.” She sets everything on the counter and the cashier starts to scan it all, when Dylan speaks up again.

“Jesse,” he says plainly. “Those guys hit our car,” 

Jesse snaps to look out the doors as the cashier does too, and watches as the rickety truck of one of the local fishermen shudders to a halt at the pump behind their SUV, which is now rocking slightly from the hit against the rear bumper it just suffered. Jesse swears under her breath, dropping her credit card on the counter and heading out the doors. Dylan’s eyes widen.

“Jesse, wait—”

“I’ll be right back!” she calls, already outside and headed for the driver at the pump. Dylan’s shoulders droop, until he finally looks back at the cashier, carefully scooping the card back up.

“Sorry about them,” the cashier tries.

“Mmm,” is Dylan’s only response, eyeing the register warily.

“Oh, I already scanned everything.” She turns the tablet on the register to face him. Dylan just fiddles with the card a moment, looking for a place to slide it.

“You can just tap the card against the screen,” the cashier finally says. Dylan does so, then looks around for a stylus or a button to press. “It’s a touch screen,” she offers again.

“Oh,” he says, pressing _credit_ , eyes locked on the tablet.

The cashier asks before she can convince herself not to. She can’t help it. They’re both the most interesting thing to happen there today.

“You like— just get out of prison or something? Or like, the hospital?” she covers quickly, realizing how insensitive the prison comment might sound, before sticking her foot in her mouth again. “Or a cult? Or…”

Dylan’s eyes go up to the cashier’s for the first time, and she suddenly feels very… _seen_. He just stares at her, head tilted slightly.

The register _dings_ an approval and spits out a receipt, and the cashier grabs it on auto-pilot. Jesse appears again in the entrance.

“Yeah,” Dylan says finally, scooping up all their snacks in his arms, forgoing a bag. Jesse rolls her eyes and holds the door open.

They’re already in the car before the cashier manages to squeak out,

“Wait, which one?”

New York to Ordinary is nearly a two day trip. About eight hours of driving, which they could’ve done in a day, like Emily suggested, but after talking about it in the months leading up to it, Jesse and Dylan decided they’d rather get to Ordinary in the morning and leave themselves as much time as they want. Emily points out they could stay there overnight— it’s a Bureau owned town, and their home, after all— but neither are sure they could do that. And Dylan is quick to shoot down the concept of an eight hour straight car ride.

Officially, on the Bureau paperwork, the Fadens are ‘being dispatched to check the status of an important AWE site personally due to exclusive knowledge and expert knowledge on the local area’, but it’s really just a fancy way to say they’re on a long overdue vacation together to go back home. It being Bureau business, however, means the FBC is paying for everything— motel stay, food, snacks, gas, the rental car— _and_ that they both continue to get paid while they’re out.

Dylan, as well as successfully arguing that he should get some form of backpay or compensation at the _least_ for his years in the House, has also been bestowed the role ‘Supervisor of Houseplant Wellbeing’. It is, technically, a job Jesse invented, and ultimately just a title to land him on official payroll in some capacity to appease the bureaucratic rules. But Jesse encouraged him to genuinely go care for the plants around the Bureau if he wanted, mentioning that they liked to be talked to. He later found a note from Ahti requesting the same job be completed, and made a pretty decent show of dragging his feet and complaining about how ridiculous talking to plants seemed. That is, until he finally went and tried it.

Now if anyone else tries to take the job, Dylan is the first to complain and point out it’s _his_ responsibility and title. The Bureau plants have honestly never looked better. Any attempt to point out his previous reluctance and complaints about the job are met with absolute denial. (One Researcher is still adamant she heard Dylan singing to the plants, but nobody believes her).

A lot has shifted and changed in the Bureau. The path to lifting the lockdown was a bumpy, growth-pain filled journey. But things are shaping up. Staff had a lot to grapple with— new bosses, new guidelines, new rules, new revelations. So few had known anything about what Trench, Darling, and Marshall had done. Some still don’t know, with certain details locked behind classifications and redactions. But the new Bureau— Jesse’s Bureau— is far more transparent with staff than before. It’s a policy not everyone has adjusted to yet. Comparisons are still being drawn between the new and the old. (Nobody is denying the fact that everyone is feeling the grief of the missing staff, or how important their work was and still is). But the most disturbing revelation for many is still Dylan.

Dylan, at first, assumes it’s shock and disgust about _him_. The failed prime candidate. The Hiss spokesperson. The black sheep. It rattles him the first time he realizes staff are appalled that he was a prisoner. That something so inhumane and horrifying was happening at their work, their home, by people they love and trust, right under their noses, none the wiser. That they came to work every day— maybe even within those 17 years— and never realized the Bureau was holding a child, an experiment, a prisoner.

Dylan isn’t sure how to process that.

It makes his original plan to rub it in, to seek some sort of repayment by gloating and never letting them forget, much, much harder. His attempts to pin black-and-white blame on someone falter and fail.

(There are still, of course, staff who don’t trust him. Some, by extension, don’t trust Jesse much either. He doesn’t care. He does, but he doesn’t. They’re fun to unnerve by taking up space in the Bureau. Some swear to quit once the lockdown lifts. _Good riddance_.)

The Bureau changes. So do staff. So does he.

It’s weird. But Jesse tells him it will be okay. He’s inclined to believe her.

Lockdown finally lifting was a _massive_ celebration, and no doubt the originator of many new Bureau legends, stories, and rumors. Everyone couldn’t just leave at once, of course, which resulted in a lot of people getting antsy for their shifts to _finally_ end. Communications worked double time to explain absences, contact families of those lost in the crisis, and formulate a fitting cover story for the lost time. It also saw the return of all the employees who were out in the field, on vacation, or just not in the Bureau during lockdown. They felt overwhelmed for entirely different reasons, going through pages and pages of information and debriefing to catch back up. New Director, new Head of Research, new Head of Operations, new rules, new Bureau.

Dylan’s long-awaited exit takes a little longer. Not due to any rules or restrictions, but simply because it was just… so much to take in. Instead of just waltzing out the front doors into the City, Arish suggested heading through one of the Bureau’s many back exits or subway tunnel accesses, to try and cut down on how absolutely overwhelming the world outside would be after 17 years of absence. He works up to it, over time, standing in the tunnels with Arish and Jesse, listening to the trains, walking through maintenance tunnels, getting closer to the crowds. All he wants is out— his long overdue freedom— but he retreats back into the House each time, overwhelmed by the sound and smells and smog and input of everything old and new he hasn’t experienced in so long.

He’s infuriated that he finally has a chance to leave and can hardly take a step. But Arish hears him out, listening to him. Telling him about what the city is like, all the people in it and the stuff he sees on his way to work. Jesse finds an apartment close enough to the Oldest House to be a simple walking commute. It’s about as close and quiet as you can manage in New York, and she makes sure Dylan likes it too. He’s offered his own place, even one right next to Jesse’s, but he’s adamant on staying with her. He says it’s just temporary, until he’s ready for somewhere else. And Jesse tells him she doesn’t mind, and he can stay as long as he wants, she’s just glad she found him. She says that a lot. She knows she doesn’t have to— words don’t do any of it justice, and Dylan feels it too— but she says it anyway.

He walks there with Jesse one afternoon after Emily and Arish forced her to take a break from work and head home. Dylan silently fell in step behind her, and they passed through a back way, coming out in a subway station, before ascending the steps out onto the street.

Dylan craned up to look at the top of the buildings, and the pink-tinged evening sky, and the clouds, and the pale moon hanging in view. Jesse tried not to laugh and took his elbow, guiding him through the crowds to their new apartment building. He spent the rest of the day at the small window in their kitchen, watching the city move, counting cars and people and lights and signs, breathing in the exhaust and smoke filled air as deep as he could, revelling in it.

The nightmares are a new development. Rather, _these_ nightmares. Dreaming is not a foreign thing to him by any stretch of the imagination, but these are… different. Traumatic. He wakes Jesse up one night in a panic, deeply unnerved and confused. They turn every light on in the apartment, and he sits on the couch and focuses on everything else around him, while Jesse sits and waits. They’re infrequent, but they still rear their ugly heads as time passes. He can’t bring himself to talk about most of them. Most, mercifully, slip away from his memory before he can dwell on them. It breaks Jesse’s heart. She wishes she could do more than just be with him. That she could flip a switch or say the right words and make it so a bad dream never haunts him again. But he just wants her there with him, and she’s more than happy to oblige.

Coming _back_ to the Bureau after his first night out is odd, but paradoxically comforting. As much as he hates the Bureau (or rather, the _old_ Bureau), it’s hard to not cling to the familiar, the safe. He roams as he pleases, doing whatever _he_ deems helpful. A stack of notes sometimes appears on Jesse’s desk with random comments, suggestions, and observations from Dylan. Langston once received a cryptic note addressed to 'Tennyson' that claimed the rubber duck wished to tell him hello. Langston didn’t find it very funny.

Ahti’s requests, still appearing on the board despite his prolonged absence (that does not escape Emily’s interest, as she tries to figure out where he could’ve gone), get split between the two Fadens. Dylan eventually discovers the joy of the pneumatic mail system, and Arish starts getting random notes delivered to his office.

Not everything is smooth sailing— HR has a nightmare trying to sort between the real complaints (such as the new, tv-sized dent in the wall in Central Executive that Dylan nonchalantly refuses to explain) and the false claims from disgruntled employees who either give up or altogether quit.

The road trip is their newest venture, and the furthest either of them have been from the House in a long time, as well as the closest to _home._ They pass the time on the first day of driving by just thinking back, talking about where they want to visit, things they remember. Dylan fiddles with every single thing in the car, until Jesse eventually locks the window controls so he’ll stop rolling it up and down out of boredom. They find a motel and, by some miracle, resist making a single joke about the Oceanview. 

Both of them never mention it, but they’re almost anxious to go back. To see it all again. Neither have been there since it all happened. What will it be like? Will it hurt? Is the wound still too fresh? The memories? Will they be good, bad, neutral? Will it be closure of some kind? How will things have changed? But they continue on, starting the next day at the gas station, taking off with a full tank and an armful of junk food.

“Did you seriously tell that girl you were in a cult?” Jesse asks, shooting Dylan a glance from the driver’s seat. He grins lazily.

“Am I wrong?”

“I mean. _I guess,_ ” she laughs. “Way to freak the poor lady out though.”

“The cult of the black pyramid,” Dylan says, waving his hands in the air. “Where everyone’s lost their minds. Next time on Night Springs…” he trails, mumbling, smiling at his own joke. 

Jesse’s phone buzzes in the empty cup holder, and she snatches it before Dylan can.

“You’re gonna get pulled over,” he complains as she answers and puts it on speaker. She just gives him a look.

“Arish,” she answers, holding the phone up in one hand, steering with the other. “What’s up?”

“Hey Faden, just calling to see how you two are.”

“My sister drives like a maniac,” Dylan answers, slumping down in his seat. 

“I do not,” Jesse rolls her eyes. “You’re on speaker, by the way.”

“She does, Arish. Our car got hit already once.”

“ _No,_ ” Jesse clarifies. Dylan grins, hearing Arish laugh in the background. “We were parked and weren’t even in the car. Someone else tapped our bumper backing up. _Not_ my fault.”

“You still drive like a maniac.”

“You can’t drive at all.”

“Neither can you. You don’t even have a license.”

“I don’t need a license to drive.”

“What if we get pulled over?”

“I have a government ID, the Bureau can get us out of it. Look— Arish, sorry, why did you call?” Jesse says, Arish still laughing on his end.

“No, I love it. Don’t worry about it,” he trails, trying to get himself together. “Glad you two are having fun. Actually, that’s why I called, you’re getting closer to Ordinary, yeah?”

“Yeah,” the two answer at the same time.

“We still have a few agents stationed around there to keep an eye on things, I’m sure they know you’re coming, but one of them is a little more… _committed_ than the others, he might try and pull you—”

A motorcycle dips in from the side of the road behind them and flips on his lights. Dylan lets out a single ' _ha!_ '

“...over,” Arish finishes as Jesse swears, flipping on her blinker.

“Yeah. Thanks Arish. We’ll have to call you back later.”

“Have fun,” he chuckles, hanging up. Jesse slows the car to a stop on the side of the road.

“No license,” Dylan whispers.

“He’s a Bureau employee, I don’t need one.”

“I hope he doesn’t know your Director. I want to see the look on his face.” Jesse watches him approach in the rear view mirror, a perfect image of the Maine State Police officer. She rolls down her window, and he leans forward to look in the car.

“Hi officer,” Jesse gives a forced smile.

“Ma’am,” he answers. He really is a stereotypical motor cop. Mustache, sunglasses, and all. Dylan’s trying not to laugh, waiting. “Nothing wrong, don’t worry. Just wanted to give you a warning.”

“Oh?” she fakes curiosity, and it is unconvincing.

“There’s not much ahead, not sure where you’re headed, but the road’s too dangerous to continue. Might want to detour a different way. Can I ask where you’re headed?”

“We’re headed to Ordinary, actually.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to tell you it’s blocked off entirely. Public can’t get to it right now.”

“We’re not exactly ‘public’, agent.”

“Sorry, I don’t follow,” the cop squints, bushy eyebrows bunching together. Dylan chuckles, waiting to see if he catches being called _agent_.

“May I?” Jesse asks, gesturing to the center console. The ‘cop’ gestures with an open palm, and she opens it to produce her FBC ID. He takes it out of habit before really looking at it, then straightens suddenly.

“Oh! Ma’am— Director! I’m— I’m so sorry—” Dylan can’t keep it together anymore, barely containing his laughter.

“You could get in _trouble_ ,” he taunts. The officer shoots her a worried look over his aviators.

“It’s fine. Just… try and be more aware, you know?” she says.

“Of course, Director. Ordinary’s straight ahead,” he sputters. “Can’t miss it. We keep everyone out of it. Not really on maps anymore, anyway. You. You have a nice day. Again, I’m—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jesse smiles, throwing the car back into gear. “Thanks.”

They both watch with a quiet awe as the road winds closer and closer, things growing more and more familiar. Dylan points out the old train tracks, where they walked with Dad once, picking up stray bits of coal, now overgrown and forgotten. They both watch as they pass familiar, broken down buildings buried back behind the trees, more dilapidated, but somehow still standing all these years later. Eventually, Jesse glimpses the town sign on the side of the road on the horizon. Polaris shimmers around it as they get closer, and both of them can feel the quiet anxiety in the car.

Jesse slows the car to a stop just in front of the sign, brakes squeaking.

The green sign had somehow escaped vandalism, but entropy had begun to peel and weather away the white-painted lettering, and the nearby plants stretched and reached around, obscuring parts of it. Dylan leans forward against his seatbelt, trying to read the whole sign.

_Welcome to Ordinary_

_“America’s Most Unusual Ordinary Town”_

_Population: 2,365_

The engine idles as they sit on the threshold of Home. A return, all these years later.

“Are you ready for this?” Jesse asks, adjusting her grip on the steering wheel, 

“Are you?” he calmly fires back.

“I asked you first.”

“Mm-mm,” he shakes his head. “After you.”

“Dylan.”

“You outrank me, you are older than me, and ladies go first.”

Jesse squints. 

“I’m using that next time,” she says as she throws the car into drive. “Well. Here we go.”

“Home,” Dylan says, swallowing. Polaris winds between them, reassuring.

Buildings begin to crest on the horizon, and both are shocked at how _untouched_ everything is as they wind into town. Some things look restored, or changed, or newer— apparently the FBC tried to ‘reopen’ Ordinary to new citizens, but the attempt failed, and they quietly removed the town from maps, purchasing the land as their own.

“Where are we going first?” Dylan asks timidly, realizing neither of them ever really made a plan.

“We can drive around, I guess, until we find a place we want to stop,” Jesse shrugs, driving slowly down a row of stores, peering out the windshield. “It’s just us, so we don’t have to worry about anything.”

She hooks a right at the empty intersection, the long-dead stop lights swaying gently in the breeze.

“School’s kinda nearby,” she offers. “If you want to stop there. We never got to get our stuff out of our cubbies.”

“I have overdue library books,” Dylan comments absentmindedly.

“Is that a ‘yes, let’s go to the school’?”

“Sure,” Dylan says. “Yeah.”

Sure enough, it comes into view at the next turn, surrounded by weathered, billowing caution tape the FBC never took down. Jesse pulls to a stop at the curb, dropping the key into her jacket pocket.

“Well. Here we go.”

Dylan gets out, slamming his door shut, shuffling up the cement steps to the big blocky building. A shredded flag flaps in the wind out front, reflecting off the windows, classrooms dimly visible inside. Jesse follows behind him.

“Kinda eerie,” she says, shoving her hands in her pockets.

“Home’s a ghost town.” Dylan tugs on the big red doors, but nothing gives. He plants his feet and pulls harder. “Locked. I don’t want to break them. Maybe the back is open…?”

“Nah. I got it.” Jesse pulls a lockpick out from her back pocket and sets to work. Dylan watches her work with a mixture of horror and awe.

“You just keep those with you?”

“Yeah. It’s a tool.”

“I— that’s illegal,” he protests innocently.

“Really?” Jesse can’t help but laugh, shooting him a look. “The town is abandoned, and the FBC owns it. So really, _we_ own the town.”

Dylan pauses for a moment, considering it all.

“Teach me.”

“Alright,” she shifts back, making room for him, passing him the pick and tension wrench. “This one’s easy anyway, you just have to rake it over the tumblers a few times. It’s not delicate at all. Just keep some tension on it with this, and keep doing it ‘till it gives.”

He hunches over, holding the wrench in place with his thumb.

“What do you do if you don’t have a lockpick?” he asks, partially rhetorical.

“Kick it? If you have a screwdriver you can just undo the hinges on gates.”

He stops, turning to look at Jesse.

She stares back, incredulous.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing.” He turns back to the lock, focusing.

“Sometimes I needed in places I _technically_ could not get into, okay? It’s a useful skill,” she protests. He rakes the pick across a final time, and the door clicks open. “And now it’s also your skill. Leave it to the school to have crap locks.”

Dylan pulls the door open, and a wave of stale air rushes out to greet them.

“Ew,” he wrinkles his nose, pushing into the dark hallway.

“What happened to me going first?” she snarks.

“Changed my mind,” he calls, vanishing down the hall.

“Where are you going?” Jesse calls, jogging to keep up with him.

“I wanna get my stuff. See the classroom.”

“Well slow down a little,” she falls in step next to him. He just points at the wall to their right.

“There’s you.”

With the light filtering in through the dusty windows, the two can make out a bunch of photos stapled to the wall, yellow butcher paper covering the whole area. Sure enough, one photo features an 11 year old Jesse grinning up at the camera, missing a tooth, and holding up a snake.

“Wow. I remember that. We took a field trip to the zoo, and they let us hold some of the animals. Peter almost passed out when I walked over with the snake.”

“You’re tiny,” Dylan remarks absentmindedly, gently pulling the staple out of the wall and passing Jesse the photograph. “Our’s now.”

Something blue catches Jesse's eye, and she spots Polaris hovering around another photo. She reaches up and pulls it down.

“ _Wow,_ ” she whispers, breath catching in her throat. Dylan leans over to see. It’s of the whole class in front of the bus, just coming back from the trip. Next to Jesse is a 10 year old Dylan, their dad behind them with a hand on each of their shoulders. Dylan’s eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s giving a huge, toothy grin. Jesse looks like she’s squinting against the sun, holding up one hand to shield her face.

“Dad picked us up that day,” Dylan muses.

“I remember that. Our bus got back late. You waited in the sandbox for us to get there instead of walking home. Dad came looking for you.”

“My hair’s still kinda red.” He points, careful not to touch the photograph. “It got darker, like Dad’s.”

“Think you’ll grow it out to be as long as Dad’s?” she asks, turning her head to look at her dad’s careful mix of ‘old rocker’, ‘construction worker’, and ‘biker gang’ vibe.

“Mmm. Maybe. Mullet’s still an option.” 

“You are not,” Jesse lowers the photograph, glaring at Dylan in disbelief. He can’t help but smile.

“You and Arish hate it _so_ much.”

“I mean… a mullet? Really?”

“Best of both worlds,” Dylan jokes, shuffling down the hall again.

“I genuinely cannot tell if you’re being serious.”

“Good.”

Jesse rolls her eyes, trailing just behind him.

“Where was your classroom, anyway?”

“Mrs. Chester’s. It’s over…” he slows to a stop, finding the door wrapped in crime scene tape. “...here.”

Ah.

The AWE. The gang.

_Bye-bye, Mrs. Chester._

“Oh,” Jesse stops. “Right.” Dylan picks at his sleeves.

“Let’s find your room instead,” he turns, glancing at Jesse. _It’s too hard. I don’t want to relive that._

“Upstairs we go then,” she says, smiling softly.

“I wanna make fun of all your guys’ artwork,” he deadpans, then perks up suddenly, turning back to her. “ _No._ Not your classroom. The roof. I wanted on the roof so bad. The access hatch, in the janitor’s closet upstairs. Your lockpick. We can finally do it.”

“Hell yeah,” she grins, jogging up the steps. “See? Told you it’s useful.”

Dylan always suspected you’d be able to see the whole town from the school’s roof. All these years later, he can finally say he was right. Ordinary is sprawled out around them, peppered with stretching, giant trees, distant hills, and long-forgotten billboards. The town almost looks like a postcard from up here.

The roof is littered with composting leaves and outcroppings of metal ACs and heaters, but the otherwise level building gives them both a great view of Ordinary. Jesse climbs up on the tallest AC unit and stretches up onto her toes.

“I see our house!” she calls. Dylan clambers up after her, following where she’s pointing. He waves at it.

“The dump really is gone,” Dylan says, staring out at the distant patch of bare dirt where it had been. “Obviously. But. _The whole dump?_ ”

“I know,” she replies. “I can see the fence though. I bet the hole we used is still there.”

“Neil’s place,” Dylan points at a closer building, a set of apartments near the school. “They said they never found him.”

“Yeah.”

“I wonder if he’s still here.”

“No way,” Jesse gasps, pointing closer to the center of town. “Blockbuster! I haven't seen one in ages.”

“Why?” Dylan squints, trying to make out the blue and yellow sign.

“They went out of business awhile ago. There’s not really a movie rental thing like we used to do anymore.”

“Oh. That kinda sucks.”

“There’s new things instead. We’ll have to see when we get back.”

They stand there in the silence together, wind whistling past them, taking in the quiet, empty town. Home.

“Mom and Dad’s car is still in the driveway,” Dylan says finally, breaking the silence. “I left one of my library books in there. Choose Your Own Adventure. It had my favorite bookmark. Casper said nobody could get it for me.”

He jumps back down to the roof with a _thunk_.

“Let’s go _home_ home.”

They find their house unlocked and empty, besides the various evidence markers placed around the room from the FBC’s time there. It’s otherwise untouched— a time capsule back to 2002. Jesse can feel her heart beating in her chest, standing in the front door, taking it all in. The narrow entryway with the thin, rickety stairs. The open thresholds to the kitchen and living room. The old backdoor with the green welded security door in front of it instead of a screen, leading to the steep steps into their tiny backyard. Their own rooms upstairs.

The pictures on the walls. The shoes pushed up by the door. The peeling wallpaper that was old back when they were kids.

“I can’t see,” Dylan says, shoulders slumped, standing on the porch behind her.

“Sorry,” she answers, stepping in and aside. “It’s just kind of… a lot.” Dylan steps in behind her, searching her face.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she tries to smile. “It’s a good ‘a lot’. I think.”

“Yeah,” he answers, peering up the stairs. “It’s weird.”

“Yeah.”

Jesse tries the light switches, but nothing flicks on.

“There’s a flashlight in my room,” Dylan says, starting up the steps. “And everything else.” 

He pushes his door open at the top of the stair landing. Jesse watches from the entryway, still a bit awestruck by being _home_.

“Aw, _what?_ ” Dylan whines, disappearing into his room. Jesse can’t help but laugh.

“What?”

“The Bureau said they couldn’t find any of my stuff, so they couldn’t bring it to me,” he yells. “ _B. S._ This place is a _museum_. They didn’t touch a thing.”

She can hear him rooting through the stuff in his room, old wooden floor creaking. She finally wills herself to take the first steps upstairs, cresting up at the top and poking her head in. Dylan has his old hand-me-down backpack from school in one hand, kneeling in front of his old bookshelf, and grabbing stuff to put in it.

“Wow. It really is just as messy as it used to be,” she jokes.

“Your room is just as bad,” he says, pulling a stuffed animal lion off his bed and dropping it into his bag. 

Jesse shrugs, leaning against the doorframe, looking over his room, remembering all the times they built blanket forts and stole the old couch cushions from downstairs to make walls. Dylan pulls an old pencil case out of a toy box and adds it to his backpack.

“Are you going to take everything?” Jesse laughs.

“Why not? It’s my stuff.”

“It won’t all fit in the backpack.”

“We have a car.”

“Good point.”

He points his old flashlight at her face and flicks it on, and she recoils, shielding her eyes.

“Huh. Still works. Good batteries.”

“ _Ow,_ ” she glares.

“I want to see your stuff,” Dylan says, switching it back off. “We spent more time in there anyway. You had the radio, and the glow stars on your ceiling.”

_Oh yeah. I forgot about those._

Polaris spins cheerily by the doorknob to Jesse’s room. Dylan watches her expectantly.

Jesse steps back out with a deep breath, pushing her door open slowly. The last of the afternoon’s sunlight pokes through the clouds, painting her whole room orange.

“Oh. It _is_ a mess,” Dylan remarks, peering over her shoulder. Everything is strewn about— her bed is unmade, the sheets ripped off and sprawled across the floor. Her short bookshelf is tipped over, books lying everywhere. Her small closet is wide open, and her old clothes are all piled in the bottom.

“Dad’s old ‘Old God’s’ poster looks fine,” she says, gesturing weakly at the wall with the big poster she’d convinced him to hang in her room all those years ago.

“What happened?” Dylan asks.

“I ran here to get a bag,” Jesse says, staring past it all. “I didn’t know what I’d need, or if they were going to come check here for me. So I just… grabbed what I could and ran.”

“Oh.” Dylan’s chest aches. Jesse blinks, then backs up a few steps, shutting the door.

“What else do you wanna bring home? Let me carry it down with you.”

They manage to fill the back of the SUV with a lot of their old stuff— a mix of photographs, books, CDs, and some of their parent’s things. Neither of them have to say anything, as they pick through their parent’s room, but they can both feel it— the long unanswered question of _what_ and _how_ and _why_. Jesse tries not to think about how or why.

The sun finally starts to set, turning the sky pink, and the Fadens find themselves in their sloping backyard, both planted on the metal swing set still standing all these years later.

Dylan rocks himself back and forth, watching the swing’s chain twist up above him. Jesse pushes herself slightly with her toes, metal bars creaking and groaning.

“I’m glad we came back here,” she says, staring down at her feet. Dylan hums in agreement. Polaris flickers between them. “It feels good to not be Director for a day.”

“I missed this,” Dylan adds. He lets the swing twist full around a few times before unwinding again, nearly hitting Jesse with his feet.

“I’m— I know I say it a lot,” she says, hands tightening around the chains. “But I’m just. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad I found you. That you’re okay.” Dylan drags his feet across the ground, bringing the swing to a stop, watching his sister.

“Are you okay?” he asks her again.

“Yeah,” she says, eyes still fixed on the ground. “I just…”

What can she say? Where does she start? This 17 year journey, the fear, the doubts, the questions, the guilt. Finally finding Dylan. Being Director of the place they both feared and hated for so long, _loving_ the place. Not loving the Board. Not loving the mess to clean up. Cleaning it up anyway.

“You’re the only one I can talk to openly about a lot of stuff,” she says finally. “You just. You get it. And I don’t have to worry about Bureau rules or the Board or whatever. I want your input. I trust you. Not— not that I don’t trust Emily or Arish, obviously. I trust them, too. It’s just… I guess… I’m glad you’re here,” she repeats finally.

Dylan just watches her.

“Even though I say it almost every day.”

“Me too,” he says finally. 

Jesse looks up at him, 

“I—” the words are never easy. “Me too,” he says again. But she knows what he means. Everything buried in those few words, everything he wants to say, that he hopes she understands. And she does. They get each other.

She shuffles back in the swing, pushing as far back as she can, then launches forward, trying to get some height. Dylan watches as she builds up momentum, then launches herself at the peak of her swing, levitating up in the air.

“You’re a nerd,” he yells after her.

“We’re related. It runs in the family.” She lets herself touch gently to the ground. “It’s gonna get dark if we don’t leave soon. I don’t really want to get stopped by that agent again. You ready?”

“Yeah,” he pulls himself up off the swing, turning back to the house. “I want him to make the same mistake again. The look on his face would be worth it.”

The sun is long gone by the time they reach the edge of town again. Stars are starting to shimmer, the milky-way bright and visible with the lack of light pollution. They’re just passed the sign on the border of Ordinary when Dylan sits up suddenly.

“Wait, stop the car,” he says, and Jesse hits the brakes a bit too hard. He gives her a weird look.

“What?” she asks, assuming he forgot something.

“I just wanna do something,” he says, grabbing something out of the backpack between his feet and hopping out of the car. Jesse opens her door and hops out after him. 

Dylan wanders up to the town sign, shoving the overgrowth and brush out of the way, and uncapping a sharpie with his mouth.

“Just got to make it accurate,” he mumbles, cap pinched between his teeth. He scribbles over the six and five on the population marker. He starts to go for the three, but hesitates, and scratches out the two instead.

“Three?” Jesse questions.

“Yeah,” he says sheepishly. “You, me, and Polaris.”

Jesse smiles.

“You’re _extremely_ cheesy. And a dork. I hope you know that.”

Dylan snaps the cap back on and turns back to the car, climbing back in and shutting the door.

“Yeah, well. We’re related. Runs in the family.”

Jesse rolls her eyes and climbs in the driver’s seat again, watching the road illuminate ahead in the headlights, before watching Ordinary disappear behind them in the rearview mirror.

_Grow brighter._

_Around one constant, they revolve._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, again, everyone, for joining me on this ;u; this is my first ever longform fic like this, and I'm shocked and delighted to have finished it, and still even *more* shocked and delighted that people have read it and enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I realize that sounds INCREDIBLY cliche, but it's true, and I dunno how else to express myself over text, so AAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!
> 
> Special thanks to everyone who's read, commented, followed along, listened to me ramble on tumblr, to Alexa for letting me bounce ideas around and giving me fantastic thoughts and jokes, Kirb for watching me go mad and proofreading chapter 18 to make sure I was coherent, Danboi for handing me the extremely cursed concept of Dylan with a mullet, and just like... everyone. ksjdhfksjdhf. I love you guys. The Faden siblings make me cry. Control makes me cry. s/o to remedy.
> 
> See you in the next Control oneshot I write! (or come talk to me on tumblr, we go crazy go stupid there, akjsfhkjshdjh)
> 
> <3


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